A Miracle for Christmas (Harlequin Romance)

by Grace Green

  Damn! Why had she allowed herself to look up!

  Clutching the strap of her shoulder bag with both hands, she walked faster with each step, as if by putting as much distance between them as quickly as possible, she could blot out the image of McAllister and the sophisticated blonde.

  But the picture seemed indelibly stamped on her retinas and didn’t fade till long after she got home.

  At precisely four o‘clock on the afternoon of the wedding, Stephanie’s buzzer went. When she picked up the phone, it was to hear a man’s voice, badly distorted by static, say something that sounded like ‘Transportation.’

  ‘I’ll be right down,’ she answered.

  And she hoped, with a trace of anxiety, that this man, whoever he was, hadn’t been given the impression by Gina that she considered him to be her ‘date’ for the wedding.

  When she stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor, she moved her lips in an automatic smile of greeting directed at the figure standing waiting for her. He was wearing a black tux, sparkling white shirt with ruffles down the front and a black bow tie. She felt her smile freeze as her gaze lifted to his face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in a strangled voice.

  McAllister raised his brows. ‘I’m your driver. Didn’t Joyce tell you I’d be the one picking you up?’

  He’d never looked more devastating. Tall, dark and handsome didn’t even begin to do justice to his brand of looks. Her heartbeat kicked against her ribs and wouldn’t quit. ‘No. She said I’d be picked up by her daughter’s boyfriend’s mother’s boss!’

  He shrugged. ‘That’s me.’

  Stephanie stared at him.

  ‘My secretary’s son is marrying your assistant’s daughter. Marjorie Sutton—my secretary—and your assistant have been friends for years. Surely—’

  ‘I know that part. About their being friends. But Joyce didn’t think fit to explain to me exactly who Gina was marrying. What I can’t understand is why Joyce didn’t tell me you were the one picking me up. She knows we’ve met—she watched us drive off together the day you showed me the lot, for heaven’s sake! Why—’

  ‘I think—’ irritation thinned McAllister’s lips ‘—we have been set up. Without actually saying as much, Marjorie Sutton gave me the clear impression that you were well aware that I’d be the one picking you up. I’ll kill that woman!’

  ‘Is it going to be such a chore then, to drive me to the church?’ Stephanie said in a haughty tone. ‘Oh, don’t think I’m not annoyed, too, but I think murder is a bit of an overreaction!’

  ‘A chore?’ Hard steel blue eyes skimmed over her. Her breath quickened as his gaze encompassed her curly brown hair, her full rosy lips, the green suit that skimmed flatteringly over her elegant feminine curves. The hard blue became smoky. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it won’t be a chore. But tell me...’ He scooped up her hand and led her toward the door. ‘Why isn’t your fiancé driving you to the wedding?’

  He didn’t know. He still hadn’t heard. So perhaps that was why he hadn’t contacted her—either before, or after, their accidental meeting at the bookstore. For a moment, her heart soared like a captive bird unexpectedly freed from its cage...then she remembered Tiffany Whitney, and the way the elegant blonde had been looking at McAllister a couple of days ago, and her heart plummeted.

  ‘I don’t have a fiancé.’ She felt his hand slacken for a second, as if she’d taken him by surprise. ‘I broke off the engagement several weeks ago. In fact—’ she regarded him coolly ‘—had you not jumped to the erroneous conclusion that I was in a snit because you took Janey out, and had you not been in such an all-fired rush to decide I was having a jealous tantrum, I’d have explained way back then that I’d broken off the engagement.’

  He had obviously recovered from his momentary surprise. She felt his grip tighten, felt the quickening throb of a pulse at the base of his thumb.

  ‘So you’ve ditched Gould...again.’ His tone was steady. ‘And this time, it’s...final?’ He opened the door.

  She stepped out into the sunshine. ‘Absolutely.’

  Somewhere, a songbird trilled a joyful aria. ‘I assume,’ he slid his hand up to circle her wrist, ‘that Joyce knows about this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then Marjorie Sutton also knows...though she has said nothing to me. Yes, they’ve set us up.’ They walked down the path together; he didn’t release his grip till they reached the car. He opened the passenger door, but as she made to slip past him and get inside, he put a hand on her forearm. ‘Stephanie?’

  She looked up at him. ‘Mmm?’

  He grinned, and her heart looped the loop. ‘I have to say...despite the way we’ve been duped...I like the way this day is starting to shape up.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE wedding ceremony was a moving one...but through it all, Stephanie was much more aware of McAllister sitting squeezed beside her in the narrow pew than she was of the groom or the bride or any of the words that were spoken.

  Later, during the dinner, McAllister was an attentive partner, and charmed not only her, but everyone else at their table.

  Stephanie couldn’t help feeling a glow of pride that he was her escort, and despite her attempts to remain reserved, she found that happiness kept bubbling up inside her.

  The bubble burst shortly after dinner.

  She and McAllister had found themselves alone for the moment, at their table. And for the first time, he brought up the subject of her broken engagement.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘you finally gave Gould back the ring.’

  ‘Yes.’ It had been a shattering experience; one that had left her trembling. She didn’t want to talk about it.

  Or about Tony.

  But McAllister apparently did.

  ‘He never mentioned to me—or to anyone else, as far as I know—that the engagement was off. He just phoned my office one day and said he’d decided not to use my services. I assumed you were so mad at me for taking Janey out that you’d told him to find another architect.’

  ‘I’d never have done anything like that!’ Stephanie sputtered out indignantly.

  “‘Hell hath no fury...”’ His eyes twinkled.

  A leading comment...and one she’d be safer to ignore. ‘Actually,’ she tilted her chin primly, ‘you were very rude to invite Janey out without including me in the invitation.’

  ‘You’re right...but sometimes the end justifies the means.’

  ‘And the end was supposed to be... what?’

  ‘To make you ask yourself if you could truly be in love with Gould, when all the time you were...lusting after me...’

  Oh, yes, she did lust after him. Desperately! ‘You really do have a high opinion of yourself!’ She affected a tone of outrage.

  ‘But you’re not denying it, are you?’ he queried. ‘Just as I won’t deny the feeling’s mutual, and has been ever since we met. And whatever else might have been between you and Gould, that spark was missing—’

  ‘So now you’re claiming to have psychic powers?’

  ‘No, just the simple power of observation. I saw the two of you together, that night we had dinner. And I’d have described your interaction as—let me be kind—bland.’

  He was right, of course. Their relationship had been as dull as cold porridge. She hadn’t realized it, though, till after she’d met McAllister. Her pulse gave a tremulous little flutter: the way they reacted to each other was anything but bland!

  ‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘that you pulled the plug. I guess you finally found out about the Whitneys’ skiing party being canceled on account of their lodge burning down. I have to say that when I found out, that day we drove to the building lot, that Gould had told you he’d changed his mind about going to Aspen because he wanted to spend Christmas at Rockfield with you, I couldn’t believe his gall—’

  ‘You knew?’ Stephanie felt her stomach cave in, as if he’d punched it. ‘You knew...then?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ McAlli
ster made a casual gesture. ‘I knew. Paula Whitney got in touch with me at the end of December, because she and her husband wanted me to design their new lodge. She told me the whole story—about how you’d had to opt out of the Aspen trip because of a cousin’s funeral, and about how Gould himself had actually gotten as far as the boarding lounge at the airport before she managed to reach him to tell him the party was off. Sure I knew...’

  A cousin’s funeral? Stephanie felt her mind reel. Another lie. The depths of Tony’s deception made her sick.

  And McAllister had been aware of it.

  All this time.

  She lurched to her feet and stared down at him. Her body was shaking, her cheeks drained of blood. She felt as if she was drowning in her own feelings of humiliation. ‘You knew.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘And you didn’t tell me. How you must have been laughing at me, thinking what a gullible idiot I was. And you told me that day in the bookstore that you thought we could be friends—’

  He’d surged up from his seat, too, and put out a hand to her. ‘Steph, I—’

  She pushed his hand aside. ‘Friends! Let me tell you something, Mr. McAllister, about friends. Friends don’t lie, friends don’t pretend, friends don’t cover up.’ Her eyes seemed suddenly full of sand; furiously she blinked to clear the gritty sensation away. ‘You’re the last person in the world I’d want as a—’

  ‘I didn’t tell you—’ his features were set grimly ‘—because it wasn’t my place. And I wasn’t laughing at you, or thinking you were an idiot. If you think that’s the kind of man I am, then you really are an idiot.’

  ‘I don’t know what kind of a man you are,’ she spat back, ‘because you cover that up, too!’

  ‘Calm down, Steph. I know you’ve had a rough time lately, but...’

  Calm down. That was exactly what Tony had said to her, after she’d found out the truth about him, and he’d wanted to avoid a scene. She hadn’t cared then if she’d created a scene; but here, she did care. ‘Oh, go away.’ She choked the words out. ‘Just go away and leave me alone.’

  McAllister shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

  She saw compassion in his eyes, and part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, and surrender to the comfort she knew he would give her.

  But her pride wouldn’t let her.

  They stood with their eyes locked, neither giving an inch.

  They had reached an impasse.

  And he was the one who walked away.

  But not before saying, in a quiet voice that twisted her heart,

  ‘Okay, I’ll go. But the next move is yours.’

  McAllister kept his word.

  He didn’t come near her. Not even after the band had struck up, and the dancing began.

  Not that she sat wilting; she didn’t. She had an overabundance of eager partners, and as she danced she concealed her unhappiness under a façade of laughter and gaiety. Anyone watching would have thought she was having a ball.

  Somehow she managed to keep up the pretence all evening, though the strain was well-nigh unbearable.

  Around twelve-thirty, she went to the ladies’ room to splash cold water on her wrists, and when she returned to the table, she found it deserted. Taking a seat, she swept an under-the-lashes glance over the dance floor, and while she was doing so she was joined by Joyce.

  Who had not only seen, but had correctly interpreted her furtive survey.

  ‘He’s over there,’ she announced cheerfully. ‘Dancing with Gina’s sister Amy. He’s really something isn’t he, The McAllister? How many other women would have noticed that bashful little wallflower, far less taken the time or made the effort to draw her out.’

  Stephanie forced a smile and a light tone. ‘Yes, I saw him ask her up before I went to the washroom. She was hiding behind Marjorie and Bob, and you could see she was praying the floor would open up so she could sink through it.’ But now despite the twelve-year-old’s initial reluctance to join McAllister on the dance floor, she was obviously having a wonderful time—her ponytail flying as he whirled her around, her braces glinting as she giggled, her cheeks pink with exhilaration.

  ‘He’s a nice man,’ Joyce said. ‘Such a nice man.’

  Before Stephanie could respond, Joyce’s husband, Angelo, and his brother Carlo joined them, and Joyce got caught up in their conversation.

  And Stephanie found herself looking at McAllister again. Joyce was right. He was a nice man.

  All at once, she felt tears smarting behind her eyes. He was a nice man...and she was an idiot. Why hadn’t she calmed down when he’d asked her to? Why hadn’t she tried to see things from his perspective? Everything he’d done had been done from the best of intentions, because he’d been concerned about her.

  She took a tissue from her bag and dabbed away a tear as regret tore at her heart. She had spoiled what could have been a truly wonderful evening, with her pride and quick temper. She put her tissue away, and snapped her bag shut. Did she have the courage to go up to him? Apologize? Was it too late? Had he perhaps found someone else this evening, while she’d been busily riding her high horse?

  She turned, and looked around at the floor. The dance was over. Gina’s sister Amy was back sitting with her parents.

  She felt a twinge of panic. Where was McAllister? Surely he hadn’t left...?

  Oh, Lord...she felt a sinking sensation of despair. But as it spiraled down to her toes, she felt someone tap her shoulder. From behind.

  The fine hair at her nape stirred. And before she looked up, she knew with giddy certainty just who that someone was.

  ‘Stephanie?’ McAllister’s hair had fallen over his brow as he danced; now he raked the heavy strands back. His eyes were grave. The band was playing ‘Save the Last Dance for Me.’ He held out his hand, and smiled, and Stephanie’s heart turned over.

  She got to her feet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know,’ he said simply. And she knew it as all forgotten. Forgiven, and forgotten. They were, once more, in perfect accord.

  He scooped up her hand, and clasped it firmly as he led the way to the dance floor. He swung her into dancing position, and she rested the fingertips of her left hand on his shoulder. He curled her other hand in his, tucked it snugly against his chest and pulled her close. Intimately close...

  And she thought she’d never been happier in her life.

  As McAllister savored the pleasure of having this woman at last in his arms, he acknowledged to himself that the pleasure was so intense it could almost have qualified as pain. But if it were pain, he decided, it was pain he could suffer with pleasure.

  It had been sheer hell, staying away from her all evening. He had intended, though, to keep it that way. But when he’d seen her dab a tear from her eye, his hard stubbornness had melted as if it were a hailstone on a flame. Her damned pride was all that was keeping them apart. Her pride...and his own.

  Her tears had swept his away.

  And now her perfume, erotic in the most subtle of ways, was making him weak at the knees. The peaks of her breasts were pressing innocently against his chest, wreaking havoc with his precarious self-control. Her thighs, brushing his through the thin silk of her dress and the lightweight fabric of his trousers, were provoking thoughts that had no place on a crowded dance floor.

  And stimulated a physical reaction that had no place anywhere but a bedroom.

  He groaned.

  She pulled back a little, and looked up at him. Her eyes—enormous, luminous—were dark with concern.

  ‘Did I step on your toes?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘I thought I might have been responsible for that dreadful groan.’

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’ Wry amusement twinkled in his eyes.

  ‘My shoes have stiletto heels, and I thought perhaps I’d spiked you—’

  ‘No, as I said—you didn’t step on my toes.’

  “Then what on earth caused you to groan
like that, as if you were in—’

  ‘Agony?’

  ‘Are you in agony?’

  His sigh was heartfelt. ‘Mortal.’

  ‘Is it something...physical?’

  ‘It’s a...problem...I have...but it’s, er, personal.’

  ‘Something you don’t want to talk about?’

  They reached a corner of the dance floor, and as he swung her around, he took advantage of the maneuver—rather cleverly, he thought!—to pull her even closer into his embrace.

  She was still looking up at him—did her neck ache, at that unnaturally tilted angle? It was a beautiful neck—as pale as a swan’s, and so graceful he knew that if he’d still been painting, he’d have wanted to paint it. To paint her. In all her glory—

  ‘Ah.’ Her eyes sparkled, teasing him. ‘Now I know what your problem is—I can tell, by the way you’re staring at my neck that you’re a vampire ravening for blood, and you just can’t wait to drag me into a dark corner and siphon off some of mine!’

  ‘Not guilty...of the vampire part, that is.’ He lifted the hand clasped in his, and brushed a kiss across her delicate knuckles. ‘But the dragging you off to a dark corner—’ he cleared his throat ‘—bad crossed my mind.’

  He saw the faint rise of color in her cheeks, the faint flicker of her eyelashes—the response of an embarrassed maiden, he mused; and then immediately found himself wondering if she were still a maiden. Surely not. She and Gould had been engaged for months before they broke up. She was in all likelihood a very experienced lady.

  ‘I think,’ he murmured into her ear, ‘it’s time to leave. We’ll go to my place, have a cup of coffee, a nightcap...’

  Strands of her satiny hair tickled his lips, and he nuzzled into her neck, pressing a kiss on the sensitive skin below her ear. He felt her shiver. He slid his right hand around from her hip to the base of her spine, his fingertips splayed over the upper curve of her exquisite little bottom.

  At the intimacy of his touch, a spasm rippled through her slender frame. The tremor was so faint as to be almost unnoticeable, but this evidence of her vulnerability touched something deep in his soul... awakening feelings he had never experienced before and rocking him to the core.