A Very Merry Christmas: WITH Do You Hear What I Hear AND Bah Humbug, Ba

by Lori Foster

  She wrinkled her nose. “I thought you might offer to give me a massage. Strictly medicinal, of course.”

  He carried their dishes to the sink. “I’m not falling for that. My mother warned me about women like you.”

  She grinned, enjoying his dry humor. “Your loss.”

  He glanced out the window. The sun was out and the snow was so bright it hurt to look at it. “I need to chop some wood. Can you entertain yourself for awhile?”

  “I think I can manage. I might alphabetize your spices.”

  “Won’t take long. I think it’s pretty much salt, cinnamon and pepper.”

  “Spoken like a typical bachelor.”

  When Grant started chopping wood, he realized he was smiling. Maddy’s sass and wit made him laugh. She had bounced back incredibly quickly from a bad experience. Her sexuality was an innate part of her personality, and he admitted to himself that he wouldn’t be able to resist her for long, nor did he want to. Any man of his acquaintance would jump at the chance to have a few days of uncomplicated sex with a fascinating woman.

  But he found himself wanting to prove to her that love did exist. Which was really pretty damn funny since he had no personal knowledge of such emotion. Maddy was the kind of woman who deserved to be loved. She was smart and strong and full of life. If she hadn’t found love, it wasn’t her fault. The men in her orbit must be idiots, or at the very least blind.

  The back door opened and his heartbeat jumped, but it was only Van Gogh lumbering out to see him. Maddy must have taken pity on the dog’s whining. Van Gogh loved to be outside. But the deep snow was giving her problems.

  Grant used his arm to clear the drifts off the top of the picnic table and gently lifted the dog so she could bask in the sun. The temperature was in the midtwenties, but there was no wind, and the sun felt remarkably warm.

  He returned to splitting logs, relishing the strain on his muscles and the sheer physical labor. In forty-five minutes he had more than enough wood, but he kept working. He was sweating now, so he shrugged out of his heavy coat. His plan was to make himself tired enough to forget how horny he was.

  He and Maddy might end up in bed, but he wanted to make sure she was recovered, both physically and emotionally, from her frightening experience…And in all fairness, he needed time to explain his own situation. He had a few secrets of his own to confess.

  When he returned to the house, everything was quiet. He found Maddy in the living room, but she never even looked up when he entered. She was sitting cross-legged in one of the big armchairs, working on her laptop. He made a fair amount of noise, carrying in wood and adding logs to the fire, but her eyes remained glued to the small computer screen.

  She had a pencil tucked behind her ear, and a couple of notebooks lay scattered on the coffee table. He sat down across from her and glanced at his watch. It was exactly thirty-two minutes before she stopped typing and realized he was there.

  He grinned as she visibly shook off whatever world she had been in and returned to the here and now. He cocked his head. “I take it things are going well?”

  She nodded, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “I worked out the whole murder scenario while I was walking yesterday. I found a steep part of the trail over a deep ravine where I could conceivably shove a body off and have it disappear. I had already researched how and where to give a fatal knife wound between the ribs. So it’s all coming together.”

  “How many books have you published?”

  “Three so far. This will be my fourth.”

  His eyes widened. “Wow. You’re pretty young to have done so well.”

  Her lips quirked. “How old do you think I am?”

  He shrugged uneasily. Discussing a woman’s age was never a smart thing to do. “I don’t know…twenty-four…twenty-five?”

  She laughed. “I’m thirty-one, but thanks.”

  He studied her face carefully. No way would anyone believe that. Although now that he thought about it, she did have a certain confidence about her that came only with experience. He sighed theatrically. “I’m relieved. At least now when we make love, I won’t have to worry about cradle robbing.”

  She flushed bright red, her expression rattled.

  He grinned devilishly. “What? It’s okay for you to proposition me, but I can’t make my intentions known?”

  She licked her lips. “You surprised me, that’s all.” She shut down the computer. “We need to talk.”

  Uh-oh…Those four words never preceded anything good. He shifted uneasily in his chair. “Okay. What about?”

  She pinned him with a don’t-give-me-any-crap stare. “Who’s the woman in the picture?”

  Shit. He’d hoped to work up to this gradually. He smiled weakly. “My ex-wife, Jillian.”

  To say Maddy was shocked was like saying George Clooney was kind of cute. She finally found her voice. “You’ve been married?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “And you keep her picture over your mantel?” Her voice ended on a squeak, and she tried to regain her composure. Sick disappointment filled her stomach. If he cared enough to look at that gorgeous woman every day, then Maddy was out of luck. She could never hope to compete with the voluptuous beauty.

  Grant was frowning. “I keep the picture,” he said with careful emphasis. “The subject is merely incidental.”

  She glared at him. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

  His lips firmed, but he didn’t respond to her snide comment. “Look at it up close, Maddy.”

  She stood and crossed to the fireplace. The picture was breathtaking from any angle, the colors and strokes filled with energy and emotion. She glanced at the signature in the bottom right-hand corner: G. Monroe.

  She spun around to find him watching her carefully, a rueful smile on his face. She looked at the painting again. “You painted this?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “But it’s brilliant…museum quality.”

  A hint of red tinged his cheekbones and she realized she had embarrassed him. She lifted her hand to touch the rough wooden frame, its simplicity a perfect foil for the setting. “I don’t know what to say, Grant.”

  He joined her at the mantel. “I’m glad you like it. But I want you to know that Jillian is nothing more than a slightly nostalgic memory from my past.” He touched her cheek. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know, but it will be a lot more pleasant with you in my lap.” He tugged on her arm, pulling her toward the sofa.

  Maddy allowed herself to be persuaded, eager to hear what he had to say, yet uneasy as well. When she was snuggled in his embrace, he began kissing her…first her lips, then her throat and then sliding down her collarbone. She arched her neck, feeling her need for conversation wither and die. She shoved a hand against his chest. “Talk,” she whispered, her breathing constricted. “You promised.”

  He cupped her breast, making her whimper. “Are you sure?”

  His gentle tug on her nipple nearly made her cave. She ached to feel his hands on her bare skin. “I’m sure,” she said, trembling and hot. Lord help her when he finally decided to make love to her in earnest.

  He eased back, allowing her to sit up. She tried to shift away, but he pulled her close. “No distance,” he muttered.

  They sat, twined in each other’s arms while their breathing steadied. Maddy probed, unsure if he would volunteer anything on his own. “Tell me about your marriage.”

  He sighed. “I’m thirty-five years old. It all seems like so long ago.”

  “I’d like to hear about it,” she said softly.

  “She was my girlfriend in college. Right before we graduated she told me she was pregnant. I did the honorable thing and married her.”

  “But she wasn’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did she lie on purpose?”

  “Yeah. She admitted it later. I was angry and she was remorseful. We tried to put it behind us. We had been friends for a long time, and we did have physical att
raction going for us.”

  “But you didn’t love her.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “Not really.”

  “So when did you divorce?”

  “I ended up working as an investment broker. Turns out I was pretty good at it. I made other people and myself a pile of money. But one day it started to bore me. The thrill of winning was gone, and I told Jillian I wanted to see if I could paint.”

  “Did you have any artistic background?”

  “I took art classes in high school…wanted to major in it at college, but my dad was pretty skewed in his thinking. He thought all artists were flaming homosexuals. So I played football and baseball, and I went to college with his money and I majored in business.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “When I quit the firm, Jillian and I split. She hadn’t signed on to be the wife of a reclusive artist. She liked the trappings of my job and the endless flow of money. She was angry. That was when it ended, eight years ago. I have three galleries in Virginia and one in D.C. I’ve done okay.”

  “Has it been everything you thought it would be?”

  “Yes and no. I’ve been unsettled lately, wondering if I should go back to my old job part time—not for the money, but for the challenge. Apparently I have this whole left brain/right brain split, and I’m needing to feed the other side for awhile. Or maybe I’m just getting stale.”

  “Was that why you came up here? To think?”

  “Yep.” He squeezed her. “And look what I got instead.”

  She choked out a laugh when he hit a ticklish spot between her ribs. “I resent the implication that you can’t think with me around,” she said primly.

  “Oh, you make me think,” he said, sliding his hand between her thighs. “But it’s mostly with my cock and not with my brain.”

  The pressure of his finger on the center seam of her jeans made her crazy. “Is this foreplay or torture?” she asked, panting slightly as she twisted to get a better angle. He seemed to be getting way too much enjoyment out of making her beg.

  His teeth raked the shell of her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “I was thinking of it as foreplay, but torture could be fun, too.”

  She had a sudden flash of being tied up and at his mercy, and she groaned.

  He shifted their bodies until she was flat on her back and he was half on top of her. The heavy ridge of his erection pressed her hip. He found her mouth, no teasing this time. His tongue thrust deep, mimicking the ultimate goal.

  She felt herself melting in a million different ways. Nothing had ever felt this good. Nothing ever would.

  He nuzzled the sensitive skin beneath her ear, his breath hot, his whisper unsteady. “There’s only one thing I want almost as much as I want to make love to you,” he said, his large body trembling.

  “What?” she cried softly. “What?”

  He pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet, hers cloudy and unfocused, his hot and determined. “I want to paint you…in the nude.”

  Three

  Her face blanched, and her involuntary glance at the painting over the mantel was telling. She squinched up her nose. “I don’t know, Grant. I’m not really model material.”

  His chest was tight with a feeling that was as unfamiliar as it was scary. He cupped her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Maddy.” He saw in her eyes that she wasn’t convinced.

  Her fists were clenched, and he realized suddenly that he had upset her. His heart squeezed. “Sweetheart, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re a knockout, honest to God.”

  Her scowl was underlaid with an entirely unexpected vulnerability. “You haven’t even seen me with all my clothes off.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve seen a lot…and I’ve groped the rest.”

  Her lips twitched. “Does that smooth, romantic banter get you hordes of women?”

  “I’m devoted to my work,” he said piously, pressing his hand to his heart, happy to play the fool if it would bring back her smile.

  She sighed deeply, her chest rising and falling in an entirely distracting way. “Are you serious? Really?”

  He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her perfect lips. “I’d consider it an honor,” he said huskily.

  Her eyes softened, and he saw arousal begin to build again. His own had never waned. He wrestled with his libido and won, but it was a close call. Good things come to those who wait, he reminded himself ruefully. And the snow wasn’t going anywhere. At least not yet.

  He stood up, his cock crying out in protest. “Let’s see about rustling up some lunch,” he said, his voice tight, his balls aching. Being a hero was a hell of a thankless job.

  Maddy learned a lot about Grant that afternoon. Not so much the facts of his checkered past, but the essence of him as a man. His competitive nature rivaled hers. Over a cut-throat game of Scrabble, they squabbled happily.

  Grant groused about having only one-point letters and finally put down l-i-t. “Three points,” he grumbled.

  Maddy looked at her tiles and grinned. It was early in the game, and the board was wide open. She picked up five of her pieces and arranged them carefully in front of and behind his word.

  He blinked and stared. His voice sounded strangled. “Clitoris?” he asked, outrage building in every syllable.

  She gave him her most serious expression. “It’s a body part,” she explained slowly. “The source of feminine pleasure.”

  “I know what it is,” he snapped. “I wasn’t aware we were allowed to use pornographic vocabulary.”

  “It’s entirely legal.” She drew five replacement letters.

  Grant played. P-e-n. “Five points,” he said, his jaw tight.

  She looked at her letters and widened her eyes dramatically. “Wow. What are the chances I’d draw another I and an S?” She placed them carefully. “Penis. That’s a male…”

  He leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with something entirely dangerous. “You seem to have sex on the brain, Ms. Tierney,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table.

  She folded her hands in her lap. “Not at all. I merely minored in anatomy in college. Although, being an artist and all, you probably should know this stuff. Particularly if you’re going to paint naked people.”

  “They’re called nudes,” he snarled.

  It got nasty after that…

  He played “oat.” She made it throat. He played “it.” She made it “tit.” Finally her luck ran out. He played “church” on a double word. Nobody could make a sex word out of church. Plus, it got him a whole lot of points. She sighed and laid down the entirely ordinary “duck.”

  Grant studied her last play, his expression shuttered. He leaned forward and casually flipped her D to the floor, replacing it with an F. Then he sat back and smiled.

  She ignored his blatant disrespect for the rules and pointed out the obvious. “That’s slang,” she said. “Take it back.”

  He rolled up his sleeves, baring muscular forearms. “And yet you played ‘tit,’” he reminded her mildly.

  “That’s not slang.”

  “It sure as hell is,” he stuttered.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you challenging me? The dictionary is right there on the shelf.”

  He stared at her intently for long seconds, daring her to back down. She just smiled.

  Muttering under his breath, he retrieved the oversized dictionary and started flipping pages.

  She got up and leaned over his shoulder. “It should be the third one down,” she said helpfully.

  He made it to the TIs and started running his finger down the page, his brow creased in concentration. She wondered if he even noticed that her breast was pressing his shoulder.

  He made a little sound and she grinned to herself. “Why don’t you read it out loud, Grant?” She licked his ear.

  He jerked and cursed, nearly dropping the dictionary. He read the words slowly, incredulity in his voice. “A small worn-out horse, a nag.”

  She bit h
is earlobe. “Never play Scrabble with a writer,” she whispered. “I’m sure you have many other talents.”

  He moved so fast, she didn’t have time to react. He got to his feet, backing her toward the wall. It was a blatant attempt to use his physical size to intimidate her, and she should have been indignant. Instead, she felt a burgeoning excitement. His face was calm, but his eyes twinkled.

  She swallowed. “You can’t bully me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is that what I’m doing?”

  One more step, and her shoulder blades met resistance. She flattened her spine against the wall, her breathing jerky. “Sore losers are pathetic.”

  He cupped her butt and lifted her off the ground. Instinctively, her hands grabbed for his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Their groans mingled as their bodies strained toward each other.

  He leaned his forehead against hers, his hands kneading her ass. “I think you cheated. I demand a rematch.”

  She wiggled, close to begging. His erection tormented her even through layers of cloth. And judging by the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to breathe, Grant was interested in playing a much more intimate game than Scrabble.

  “I don’t like waiting,” she whispered, her voice agitated. In her books the characters always did exactly what she told them. At least most of the time. Grant’s obstinacy, especially in the face of his undeniable arousal, frustrated her. And she hated being frustrated.

  He heaved a sigh and released her, letting her legs slide to the ground. “Have you ever had sex with a man you’ve known less than twenty-four hours?”

  His blunt question made her wince. It was hard to carpe diem when the man in question was determined to be reasonable. “No,” she muttered.

  His smile was strained. “I am absolutely committed to being the man you spend Christmas with, but I don’t want to be the guy you regret the morning after.”

  She could see the struggle on his face, the determination to make sure she knew her own mind…And in that instant, she fell a little bit in love with him.