All I Want for Christmas...: Christmas KissesBaring It AllA Hot December Night

by Lori Wilde

  “But you are married,” Eric said. He sat on the other end of the couch, not close, but his voice was nice, soothing, not at all disapproving that she sounded like a brat. She appreciated that.

  “I’ve been trying to remember a name. A face. A date. A house. Something, but it’s all blank.”

  “Maybe you’re trying for the wrong things. How does he make you feel? Happy, sad? Afraid?”

  “Right now I’m mad, but I think that’s frustration, and I can’t very well blame him for that, now can I?” She tried to laugh. Failed.

  “Maybe you’re blocking something out. Why did you end up at the mansion that night?”

  “It’s home.”

  “But why did you run, Chloe? Did you ever think about that? Maybe you were running away. Coming home. Maybe because you’re afraid of him.”

  It would have been easy if her husband were some vile piece of trash, but Chloe thought she would have remembered that. Sadly she shook her head. “I wouldn’t have married a man unless I loved him.”

  “So what sort of man would you have married?” He threw an arm over the back of the couch, a comfortable gesture only belied by the intensity of his voice.

  She traced the line of the blue stripes on the couch with a slow finger, pretending to think about the question, but the answers were so easy. “A kind man. Strong. Not stupid.”

  Things were different between them now. Before she had wanted to touch him, to shock him into seeing what was between them. But now, they both knew what was between them.

  She didn’t dare touch him anymore, because if she did, she didn’t think she could stop. And although Chloe Skidmore suspected she was a woman who could live with those sorts of muddled principles, she didn’t think Eric could.

  It was why she loved him.

  “Funny or serious?”

  She smiled, and glanced up. “Serious.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Not funny?”

  “Funny is good, but funny is fleeting. Serious stays forever.” She remembered the day she failed her English test. Mr. Landry had hated her because she liked to talk in class. She’d made a thirty-seven, which she didn’t deserve because she’d written a really good essay, but Landry wanted to teach her a lesson about respect. Eric had been there after class, telling her that it didn’t matter. Everyone else had laughed it off, but not Eric. He understood.

  “What about looks? Dark or blond?”

  “Dark,” she answered instantly.

  “Facial hair? Beards are very popular. Maybe a goatee.”

  “Hate facial hair,” she answered firmly. “Brown hair. No beard. No mustache.”

  “Bulked up? Skinny?”

  Chloe thought for a minute. “Not skinny. Not big. There was one guy I dated in...” D.C. Oh, God. She had lived in Baltimore. In an apartment. With a sewing machine and two shelves of African violets. One plant had been losing leaves, and she’d been worried. Not “they’d been worried.” She had been worried.

  She twisted at the gold band.

  “Where?” he prodded.

  “I don’t know. It was almost there,” she lied, “but then it disappeared.”

  “Do you remember the guy? Were you scared of the guy? Maybe he had a temper?”

  It was such a strange question. “Why are you so fixated on the scary dude?”

  He laughed a fake laugh. “Wishful thinking.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Sorry.”

  She sat there on the couch, separated by a tiny gold band and two feet of empty air, and indulged a long moment of self-pity. “What are we going to do?”

  “Wait.”

  Her heart stopped for a moment, hope filling places it didn’t know better. “Wait for what?”

  “You’ll get the last pieces of your memory back, Chloe. You’re almost there. And when you remember everything...” His voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Then you go home.”

  Home. So why did this feel like home? “I don’t want to go home.”

  Eric hesitated for a long second. “I don’t want you to,” he said, his voice husky.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking me in. For saying things you didn’t want to say. It means a lot.”

  * * *

  HE WANTED TO tell her things, he felt the words on his tongue, but just as his mouth was about to say them, the doorbell rang.

  It was his dad.

  “Hello, Eric. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  Eric stayed in the doorway, silently yelling at himself for not changing his jeans. But no, he had to sit there next to Chloe, sharing the same oxygen, trying to win some bonus points for being nice. If there was a God, his father wouldn’t see through the heavy wooden door to the stains on his pants.

  It was a low point in his life.

  “I’m busy at the moment, Dad. Can we talk later? I’ll call you.”

  “I heard you had company.”

  Hell. “I know that it seems crazy to you, but I do have friends. Two.”

  “I heard she was female.”

  “This isn’t a good time, Dad. I have a tree to decorate, presents to wrap. In fact, that’s what I was doing. Wrapping your present. That’s why you can’t come in.”

  Edwin Marshall didn’t look convinced. Sadly, Edwin Marshall wasn’t stupid. “Women will always want you for the Marshall name, for the money, for the family jewels. Be careful.”

  Red-hot anger pulsed through Eric’s already overheated body. His normally calm blood pressure shot up to at least one-fifty, and that wasn’t even counting the damp state of his privates.

  Eric flung open the door. “Yeah, maybe that’s why Mom married you, for the money, for the name, for the jewels, but I’m not you, Dad. Don’t want to be, and I don’t need to wrap your present. It’s a gift certificate. From an electronics store. Two hundred bucks, which is more than I wanted to spend, more than you deserve, but I’m a decent human being, and really couldn’t care less about the Marshall money.”

  “You would have made a great lawyer.”

  “Go away, Dad. I’m having sex. With a female. She doesn’t care about the money, either, and the only family jewels she’s interested in are mine.”

  With that, he slammed the door shut in his father’s face.

  Stupid, yes, but goddamn satisfying.

  And the best part was the look on Chloe’s face.

  * * *

  A LOSS FOR WORDS was a condition that Chloe rarely suffered from, and she recovered quicker than she would have expected. And there was Eric, chest heaving, as if he’d just run a marathon, or just shocked his father, which was probably just as exhausting. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

  He didn’t look like a man who could give his father a coronary. Of course, he was an EMT, so maybe that wasn’t a concern. Still, Chloe was concerned. Yes, his parents were awful, but they were family, and that she understood. You stood by family, accepting the good and the bad, and if you didn’t, you ran away to Arkansas, leaving behind the very people who cared.

  “Are you after my money?” he asked, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

  “No.”

  He returned to the couch.

  “You told him we were...” Once again she was at a loss for words.

  “Having sex?”

  “We weren’t having sex.”

  “Maybe not in the clinical sense of the word, but what would you call it, Chloe?”

  “Making love,” she said quietly.

  The smile disappeared, and he pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For my father. For me. For earlier. You should leave, Chloe. This isn’t right.”

  No, it wasn’t right, but she had stopped caring, and she wondered if this was how Betsy Skidmore had felt, how she had left her family behind. Right at this moment, Chloe was tired of fighting. Only she was sure about one thing. Er
ic Marshall. She came and stood before him, not really sure about the future, not sure there was a future. Not sure if she had a family somewhere, not sure if Eric’s parents would ever speak to him again. There were too many things to worry about, but not right now.

  Now was the time for the truth. “I love you. I have always loved you. Not your family, no, but you, yes.”

  He didn’t smile, didn’t grin, only scowled as if she’d given him some nasty disease. “Chloe, go away.”

  Except that she didn’t. She could read the panic in his face, and knew that she’d finally said the perfect thing. “Go away because you don’t want me?”

  “Because I do.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, feeling right at home. It was a wonderful feeling, standing under the mistletoe with the Christmas tree blinking merrily. No, this was where she belonged. “If you want me, that’s all the more reason to stay.”

  “That’s the concussion talking.”

  “That’s my heart talking. Possibly my ladyparts as well, but I’m okay with that. It’s what’s right.”

  Stubbornly he shook his head.

  Boldly she put a hand on his zipper. He was hard. Smelled of sex. He was toast.

  “Can we deal with tomorrow tomorrow? I want my happy now. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember. Because I don’t want to remember.”

  “And when it all comes back?”

  “Can we deal with that tomorrow, too?” She pulled her shirt over her head, warmed by the fire in his eyes, panic turning to resignation, because they belonged together. At least for now.

  “I can’t walk away from you,” he warned, giving her one last chance to be smart.

  “Then don’t,” she said simply and walked into his arms, and this time he didn’t walk away.

  * * *

  THEY TUMBLED ONTO the floor beneath the mistletoe. When Chloe looked up and saw the sprig, she giggled, but then stopped giggling when Eric’s mouth suckled her breast.

  The pain was exquisite, like lightning tipped with gold, but she didn’t care that he was hurting her. The pleasure was too great.

  Her hands pushed under his shirt, and locked onto the hot skin. Her fingers explored the tight muscles, feeling the blood pump beneath his skin, hearing the catch in his breath when she touched him. For so long she had wanted this. Wanted him.

  With urgent hands, he pulled away her jeans, his fingers slipping inside her.

  “You were killing me. I wanted to touch you like that. Like this.” She cried out at the touch. She was made for his hands, for his fingers, for his mouth.

  He rose over her, and his eyes glinted jewel bright. All the casualness was gone, all the walls were down, and her heart began to race, because in this, they were one.

  His mouth crashed down on hers, rough and greedy, and she reveled in the swarm of sensations. His tongue in her mouth, his finger stroking inside her. Skin to skin, heat to heat.

  Needing to touch him, needing to bare him, she pulled at his jeans, getting them halfway down.

  He hissed, and she rocked against him. Each time she moved, his fingers stroked her faster, more urgently, but she wanted more.

  She freed him from his briefs, the velvet steel hot in her hand. He froze, met her eyes. “Not yet. Not now. This. It’s for you, Chloe. Only for you.”

  Gently he pushed her onto her back, his fingers lightly stroking over her skin, across her arms, her neck, down her breasts. Slowly he circled the tip of each one, whispering words to her. Beautiful, golden words, and she closed her eyes, giving herself up to the dream. His lips, his hands, they touched everywhere, teasing her, seducing her. He parted her thighs, stroking her again, but slowly, easily, as if they had all the time in the world.

  Chloe sighed, her thighs falling apart just as easily. She felt his mouth on her, his tongue tasting her, feasting on her. Her fingers dug into the carpet to keep her hips on the ground. Her teeth bit her lip, to keep the scream in her mouth. But then he sucked harder, greedy, so greedy, and she tasted blood.

  Tiny moans broke free, gurgles of nonsense sounds and her hands beat against the floor. He laughed. He laughed, and then continued dragging her closer to the place where insanity and desire mingled. Where past and present merged. She kept reaching for more, but he wouldn’t let her, reducing her to a quivering thing, begging, pleading for this.

  Pleading for him.

  She heard the rip of foil, the rustle of latex, and her mind registered the fact. She was falling apart, and he could still think. Could still breathe. Could still be sensible, and it made her angry.

  When she felt him brush against her, she rolled on top of him, pinning him there. His eyes were surprised, pleased, and she rose up above him, the V of her thighs flicking over the head of his cock. Teasing and taunting, power running through her veins like dragonfire.

  Slowly she lowered herself on him, her body stretching, swelling to accommodate him. Their eyes met and locked, and then together they began to move.

  Moonlight drifted in through the window, bathing them in silvery light, and she knew that this was a Christmas that she could never forget.

  Chloe Skidmore and Eric Marshall together.

  6

  CHLOE STRETCHED on the scrumptious bed, her fingers playing with the smooth cotton sheets, the thick duvet, the man-size pillows. She could hear the sound of the shower, Eric singing to himself. And she liked that she could make him sing in the shower, and she closed her eyes, imagining him there, naked, and wet, and waiting for her.

  His body had changed after all these years. The shoulders were thick, there was a long ragged scar on his left thigh. His legs were long and lean, covered in crisp, dark hair. His chest was bigger, broader, but his hair was still as soft. She remembered playing with his hair, remembered pressing a teasing bite on his shoulder, telling him that she loved him. Telling him...

  Oh, God.

  Waves of hurt exploded inside her, and the pain was so much worse than what she could have ever imagined.

  She remembered.

  Memories assaulted her, flooded one after another, the sight of a teenaged Eric with his friends. The hard words, the mocking looks. After their night in the wine cellar—after the night that they’d made love—and she had expected him to come to her, to stand with her, but no. Twelve years ago, he stood frozen, hands carefully lodged in his pockets. He, who had taken her virginity. No, twelve years ago he stood there in silence, carefully looking away.

  Pushing the hated memories aside, she tore the sheets from the bed and threw the duvet on the floor, kicking the covers aside until there was nothing left but a bare mattress. No evidence of the night they had spent together. None. Because Chloe Skidmore wouldn’t be the fool again.

  While Eric sang in the shower, she cried quietly and pulled on her clothes. Once again, she had gone to his bed so easily. Such a patsy. Such a cow.

  Before she left, she scanned the room, but the childish mess wasn’t enough. The wound that he had ripped open needed cauterizing. It needed to burn, so she dragged the sex-stained sheet into the other room, and threw it in the great stone fireplace. It took a moment for the hot coals to ignite the material, but eventually the fire did its job. Burning the evidence, burning the pain from her head.

  She had come back to Pine Crest for revenge. Returned to burn him, to embarrass him, to show Eric Marshall and the Marshall family that she had risen above them. To proudly tell everyone that she was married to a rich, D.C. lawyer. That they summered on the Cape, wintered on the Riviera. That they had a garden of peonies that bloomed in the spring.

  Yeah, it was all a lie, including the ring on her hand. Oh, God.

  She had gotten cold feet, unable to face him, and had run home. Not to Baltimore. To the old house that she’d grown up in. There was the fire. The memory of someone’s face.

  Teague. Teague Price.

  The Prices. The Marshalls. And then there were the Skidmores.

  Why had she ever come home? To be rejected once aga
in?

  The singing stopped. The water shut off, and Chloe grabbed her shoes and dashed out into the chilled winter’s morning. The snow was bitter cold on her bare feet, but that pain would heal. She couldn’t face him. Not again, and so Chloe Skidmore ran toward the outskirts of town, once again running away from the man she loved.

  Once again running away from the man who had broken her heart.

  7

  THE ACRID SMELL of smoke was never a good sign in a house. As an EMT, Eric knew this intuitively. The alarm system brayed, just in case he didn’t know by the fire in the fireplace that his relationship with Chloe Skidmore had just gone up in flames.

  There was a towel wrapped around his waist, his mouth was minty fresh, but his love life was now in the toilet. Or the fireplace, as it were.

  It seemed fitting. He’d known it would happen, but he hadn’t realized that it would hurt so much. For twelve years he’d been trying to make up for one huge mistake, and he’d done okay with the rest of the world, but he’d never tried to make it right with the one person he’d betrayed. And now, when Santa Claus, no less, had dumped Chloe in his life once again, he still had made a mess of it, because he’d never been brave enough to tell the world how he felt about her.

  He’d never been brave enough to tell the world that he loved her. Hell, he hadn’t even been brave enough to tell Chloe. That was all part of being a Marshall, he guessed. Something in the gene pool that said you weren’t supposed to confess that you owned a heart.

  The sheets were burned to a pile of black ash. A lump of coal would have actually been less—well, he didn’t know—maybe less, I shared your bed, and now I want to forget the whole thing—except I can’t.

  He had wanted her to hate him. He laughed, a croaking, choking sound. She was married. It was better that he would be out of her life. Using the cast-iron poker, he shuffled the ashes, tiny flames still popping up. A red-hot ember bounced to the floor, and he grabbed at it, tossing it back. It took a minute for the burn to register, and he watched, fascinated by the blistered skin. The human body was an amazing thing, designed to hurt, designed to heal. Designed to fight, designed to love.