A Miracle for Christmas (Harlequin Romance)

by Grace Green

  He wished now that he’d never accepted this job. It was going to be hell, seeing her all the time. It was going to be worse than hell, looking into those pine green eyes, inhaling the sweet sensual fragrance of her, and all the time imagining her in bed with Tony Gould.

  It was enough to drive a man to drink.

  Stephanie was standing on the sidewalk at ten-thirty the following morning, admiring her new B Mine, Sweet Valentine sign, when Joyce called her in to the phone.

  To her surprise, the caller was McAllister. He’d told her yesterday that he’d be in touch within a couple of days; she just hadn’t expected him to phone so soon.

  ‘Can you spare an hour or two this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re really busy right now...’

  ‘How about this evening then, after your store closes?’

  ‘Sure. Where do you want to meet?’ She kept her tone as cool as his.

  ‘Here. Take the elevator up—my office is just along from it.’

  ‘See you at five-thirty, then.’

  That evening, after an exhausting day, Stephanie didn’t get away till well after five-thirty. By the time she’d hurried along to the intersection, crossed the wide street and raced along to the M.A.G. building, she was out of breath.

  By the time the elevator had whisked her to the second floor, she felt faint. And when McAllister opened his door to her knock, she swayed.

  ‘Hey—’ his dark brows lowered in a scowl ‘—what’s the matter?’ He swept her inside, and deposited her in a roomy swivel chair in front of his desk.

  Thankful to get off her feet, Stephanie sank back with a sigh. She’d never been in an architect’s office before, and this one was brightly lit, spacious and tidy. Next to the mahogany desk was a drawing board with a high stool in front of it and an angled fluorescent lamp above. And along one wall was a stretch of wide windows that had a view—as she knew only too well—of the Warmest Fuzzies Toy Store.

  She realized McAllister was holding out a glass of water. She took it, drank some, and gave back the glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  He set the glass on the desk. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m all right. Just dizzy, for a moment.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘You know,’ she managed a faint smile, ‘I don’t think I’ve had anything solid since breakfast. All hell broke loose this morning, and never let up. I did have a coffee at lunch time...’

  ‘Idiot! Look, why don’t we go out and have a bite to eat? There’s a great pizza joint just a few blocks away. We can just as well talk there as here.’

  She hesitated, but when her stomach emitted a warning growl, she grimaced. ‘I can’t argue with that, can I!’

  He grinned. “Fraid not!’ Crossing the room, he scooped up his jacket and swung it on.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s go—oh, damn. I was expecting someone to return a call.’ He thought for a moment, and then said, ‘Tell you what...I’ll try calling again. Maybe they’re home now.’

  Moving back to the desk, he picked up his phone and pressed a speed dial button. Hitching his hip onto the edge of the desk, he glanced over at Stephanie, and put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I don’t expect there’ll be—oh.’ He nodded to her, and took his hand from the mouthpiece. ‘Hi, it’s Damian. I got your message. Tomorrow’s okay for dinner, but I’ll be a little late.’ Stephanie heard a feminine voice at the other end, and then McAllister said, ‘I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty.’ Again, the woman started to speak, but he broke in. ‘I can’t talk now, Tiffany. I’m on the way out the door with a client. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Surely there were hundreds of Tiffanys in Boston, but Stephanie could think of only one: socialite Tiffany Whitney. Beautiful and sophisticated, the thirty-year-old blonde was from one of Boston’s oldest and most respected families. She and Tony had been an item at one time, but though that had been several years before Stephanie met him, Tiffany had made it clear to Stephanie the first time they’d met that she’d love to get her opal-tipped claws into him again. Now, it seemed, she was hitting the social circuit with someone else.

  And that someone else was Damian McAllister.

  Suddenly Stephanie felt chilled.

  Though why that should be, she really didn’t care to ask herself.

  ‘I can see by your drooling expression that we’ve come to the right place! So...what’s it to be?’

  Stephanie met McAllister’s eyes over the checkered tablecloth at Poppa’s Perfect Pizzas, and felt the by now familiar but none the less disturbing stab of attraction. ‘I, er, don’t like anchovies. Do you?’

  ‘Yeah, but I can live without them. Can you live without pineapple?’

  Stephanie screwed up her face, and appeared to consider it. ‘Well, I guess...’

  ‘Any other no-nos?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘it’s a trade.’ Handing over the menus, he said to the waiter, ‘We’ll have one large Poppa’s Special, hold the anchovies and pineapple.’ He glanced at Stephanie. ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  He said to the waiter, ‘And two coffees. Thanks.’

  He tilted back his chair and looked at her lazily.

  Feeling uncomfortable, she turned her head, and stared out into the darkened parking lot When she turned back again, it was to find he was still watching her. Why did he seem to have the upper hand, even though they weren’t even talking? she wondered. Was he actually enjoying her discomfiture? He certainly seemed to be. Well, perhaps she could make him feel a little uncomfortable, for a change.

  She waited till the waiter had served their coffee, then she said, fixing him with a steady gaze, ‘You were very quick to condemn me when you thought I’d lied to you in Vermont...yet when I asked you at that time what you did for a living, you said...and I quote...“I draw.”’ Her tone was liberally laced with accusation as she went on, ‘It must have been clear to you that I assumed you were an artist living there year-round. Why the half-truth?’

  She had expected him to look guilty. Instead, to her irritation, he grinned. ‘I don’t think you want to know the answer to that.’

  ‘Try me,’ she snapped.

  ‘You won’t like it.’

  ‘Let me by the judge.’

  He shrugged. ‘When you told me about your store, I realized we were almost neighbours and that you, of course, didn’t know it. I didn’t want to get involved in any emotional entanglement, and I thought that if I gave in to temptation and took you to bed, there was a danger that once back in Boston, you might—’

  ‘What? If you gave in to temptation and took me to bed? I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Let me tell you, Mr. God’s-gift-to-women McAllister, that sleeping with you was the furthest thing from my mind—and to imply that if you had managed to seduce me, I would then make a nuisance of myself once we got back here, is an absolutely foul thing to say!’ She leaned across the table and glared at him. ‘I would never get involved with a man who doesn’t believe in all the things I believe in...and that includes Christmas!’

  ‘Hey, hold on there!’ He put his hands up to stop her and because she’d run out of steam, she stopped. But her cheeks didn’t lose their hot color, nor did her fists unclench, nor did her heartbeat slow down. If she’d had a custard pie in her hand, she’d have slapped it right in his face. ‘I warned you,’ he went on mildly, ‘that you wouldn’t like it, but you insisted—’

  ‘Excuse me.’ The waiter pushed aside the vase of plastic daffodils centered on the table, and placed an enormous, delicious-smelling pizza between them. ‘My name is Alfonse, I’m your waiter this evening. Enjoy.’

  She hated when waiters did that: My name is Alfonse. Who the heck needed to know their waiter’s name! Seething with ill will, Stephanie narrowed her eyes, and glared at the pizza. It looked absolutely scrumptious, the deep crust just the way she liked it, the pepper
oni and vegetables sizzling in a tantalizingly gooey bed of cheese. She wanted to throw it. She wanted to eat it.

  ‘Go ahead.’ McAllister’s voice was as smooth as silk-velvet but she could tell, by the underlying laughter, that he had read her mind. ‘Your choice. There’s a third one, of course. You could just stomp out of here in a towering rage, and leave me to scoff the whole thing myself.’

  Her stomach growled. Her mouth watered. She picked up the spatula, and helped herself to the largest slice in the pan. Eyes fixed on the plate, she handed him the spatula, snatching her hand back in disgust when his fingers brushed deliberately against her own.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he said, echoing the words of the waiter.

  ‘Hmph!’ she muttered, through a mouthful of pizza.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SNOW was drifting down in feathery flakes when they came out of Poppa’s. It must have been falling for some time, Stephanie mused; at least an inch of new snow lay over the parking lot. She had become so engrossed in the discussion she and McAllister had had about housing design—after her temper had subsided! —that she had been oblivious to the change in the weather. And she’d even forgotten, once in a while, to feel guilty about pulling the wool over his steel blue eyes, as she’d listened to him talk about solariums, indoor pools, skylights, solar heat, atriums... his topics had been endless, and endlessly fascinating.

  Now as snowflakes drifted onto her warm cheeks, she shivered, and flicked up the collar of her jacket.

  ‘I guess your car’s parked at the store,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive you back there.’

  ‘I don’t have a car at present—’

  ‘You didn’t replace your van?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve been using the bus...so we can part company here. There’s a bus stop just around the corner.’

  ‘I’ll drive you.’ He grasped her elbow and ushered her toward his car.

  She tried to tug her arm free but his grip was secure. ‘It’s not necessary,’ she protested. ‘I can easily—’

  ‘I’m not leaving you standing around in the dark.’ He unlocked the passenger door and after a brief mental struggle, she surrendered to the temptation of a drive home. With a murmured ‘Thanks,’ she slipped by him and sat down. He shut her door, before rounding the car and taking his own seat. Once he had fastened his belt, he started the engine.

  ‘So—’ with deft fingers he turned the wheel and drove out onto the street ‘—Gould’s place?’ He glanced at her.

  She stared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That’s where you want me to take you,’ he said impatiently. ‘You do live with him, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s quite an assumption to make!’

  ‘You’re engaged to the man.’ He shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘It’s not much of a stretch to conclude you’re sleeping with him.’

  This was not a discussion she wanted to have with Damian McAllister—and even if she hadn’t been planning to break her engagement, there was no way she would have admitted to him that she had never slept with Tony. It was none of his business...and couldn’t she just see those black eyebrows shoot up if she told him she was still a virgin?

  ‘One can sleep with a man without having to live with him,’ she said pertly. ‘But for the record, I share an apartment with a friend. A woman friend.’

  She gave him her address, and then averted her head, making it plain that the conversation, as far as she was concerned, was at an end.

  He made no attempt to start it up again, and there was silence between them till he had brought the car to a halt, fifteen minutes later, outside her apartment building. When he put a hand out to open his door, she said quickly,

  ‘Don’t bother to get out. I can—’

  ‘No problem.’

  With snow drifting down onto his hair and his jacket shoulders he rounded the car and opened her door.

  Together they walked up the path to the front door. On the stoop, with her fingers hovering on the catch of her purse, she looked up at him.

  ‘Thank you for dinner,’ she said, ‘and for the drive. When should we get together again?’ She tried for a businesslike tone, which was difficult, with his eyes fixed on her in a way that made her feel as if she was being held underwater.

  ‘When would you like us to get together again?’ With a fingertip, he brushed away a snowflake that had landed on the tip of her nose.

  She jerked back as if she’d been stung. ‘That’s up to you, isn’t it?’ Her voice held an edge of anger, but the anger was directed at herself, at her reaction to him, though he would have no way of knowing that.

  ‘How about Saturday? That’ll give me time to work on some of the things we talked about tonight, make some rough sketches for you to look at. Call my secretary—she’ ll set up a time. Afternoon okay for you?’

  ‘Should be.’ She opened her purse, and bent her head over as she hunted for her keys. Her hair tumbled forward, getting in her way, but before she could raise a hand to sweep it aside, McAllister reached out and drew back the mass of curls. The warm pads of his fingertips brushed her neck, and she froze. She heard him catch his breath, felt his fingers linger on her skin. Adrenaline whirled through her like a windstorm, almost knocking her off her feet.

  With a muffled protest, she pushed his hand away from her neck, and fell back against the door.

  His gaze trapped hers. ‘You feel it, too, don’t you,’ he said, and it was a statement, not a question.

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’ Her response came out weakly.

  ‘I expect you to admit that there’s something going on between us—’

  ‘There’s nothing going on between us,’ she said, knowing it was a lie. How she wished she’d worn her hair twisted back, instead of hanging loose; then this whole episode wouldn’t have happened. Would it? Or would he have found some other reason to...touch her?

  ‘But there could be, couldn’t there? If you weren’t engaged—’

  ‘You mean an affair? It would have to be that, wouldn’t it, because I know you’re not in the market for anything more serious. No, Mr. McAllister, I would not be interested in having an affair with you—’

  ‘Steph! Hi, there!’

  Startled, Stephanie jerked her head around, and saw Janey hiking along toward them in the snow, her long red hair and her emerald parka white with flakes. Her impish face was alight with a grin, a grin that widened as her open gaze skimmed appreciatively over McAllister.

  ‘Hi, Janey.’ Stephanie hoped her friend wouldn’t sense the tension sparking in the air. She glanced at the white, gold-embossed cardboard box Janey was carrying, and couldn’t help a smile. ‘You’ve been to the CakeTin, I see.’

  She heard McAllister clear his throat; the man was not about to be ignored. Besides, where were her manners?

  ‘Janey,’ she said, ‘this is Damian McAllister—he’s the architect I told you about. Mr. McAllister—’ she saw him raise a mocking brow at her formality ‘—this is Janey Martin.’ Why did she find it so hard to call him Damian? Even in her thoughts, he was McAllister. Why? Was she afraid of the intimacy implied by the use of his first name?

  Janey pumped McAllister’s hand energetically and subjected his face to a penetrating scrutiny. She must have liked what she saw, Stephanie reflected, because she said to him, ‘I’ve just bought a calorie-laden white chocolate mousse with dark chocolate shavings and fresh strawberries. Care to come up and have some coffee and dessert?’

  ‘Janey.’ Stephanie gave her friend a look that should have made her squirm, but obviously didn’t. ‘Mr. McAllister must be in a hurry to get home—’

  ‘No.’ He slanted a killer smile at Janey. ‘I’m in no hurry. Besides, I have this awful weakness for chocolate mousse...not to mention redheads,’ he added with a chuckle that was greeted by a delighted hoot from Janey.

  A weakness for redheads indeed! Resentment surged through Stephanie in a hot crimson tide. The man was a womanizer of the first order. A minute ago, he�
��d made it plain he’d like to have an affair with her, now in the blink of an eye, he’d switched his attention to Janey!

  She fumed all the way up in the elevator, and once they reached the apartment, she excused herself curtly and went through to her bedroom. The man was Janey’s guest; she could entertain him! Flinging off her jacket, she whirled it onto the bed, and stalked into the bathroom.

  She glared at her reflection in the mirror, and then savagely dragged her hair back from her face and secured it with a rubber band. But as she stared defiantly at her anger-bright eyes, she realized that the moment McAllister saw her starkly rearranged hairstyle, he’d guess the reason for the change; and he’d realize just how upset she’d been when he’d slipped his fingers through the glossy strands.

  With an irate mutter, she snatched off the rubber band again, and swept her bristle brush through her hair till it crackled. There, she thought fiercely, try to touch that now and see what happens!

  With a bit of luck, he’d be electrocuted!

  It took several long minutes before she had cooled down. Only when she felt in control of herself once more did she return to the living room.

  Janey and McAllister were standing together by the coffee table—and they were laughing. Uproariously. Over what?

  Janey spotted her first. ‘Oh, there you are!’ The words came out on a gurgling giggle. ‘Coffee’ll be ready in a minute. Let’s get started on our dessert.’

  Three plates were on the coffee table, each with a generous helping of mousse. McAllister remained standing till Stephanie and Janey were seated with their plates, and then, even as Stephanie braced herself, expecting him to sit beside her on the sofa, he perched instead on the arm of Janey’s overstuffed chair.

  Janey scooped a dainty forkful of mousse into her mouth, and a moment later said, dreamily, ‘Blissful!’ She looked up at McAllister as she spoke, and Stephanie had to wonder if she was referring to the dessert...or to how it felt to be sitting in such close proximity to this hunk who professed to be so crazy about redheads.