by Lori Wilde
And Eric did love her. He loved fat Chloe. He loved skinny Chloe. He loved Chloe, who didn’t know who she was. He loved Chloe, who would tell the world to go to hell. Chloe, who was always so much braver than him.
But not today.
Ignoring the pain in his hand, Eric threw on his clothes, and sprinted for the door. He had no idea where she had gone, but he would find her. It was Christmas Eve, a day for miracles, and maybe, just maybe, he could create a miracle of his own.
8
HE FOUND HER in room three-twenty-seven at the Bunratty Hotel. Registered under the name of Jackie Kennedy. The incognito bit cheered him up because she could have used her married name, but she hadn’t.
He knocked on the door until his knuckles were raw, but he didn’t stop. She was in there. He could hear her moving around, until finally he could hear footsteps on the other side of the door.
The door didn’t open, but it was her voice. “Go away.”
“No.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“You don’t have any money. You can’t pay for this room. People aren’t happy with that.”
“I have my wallet. It was here all the time.”
That stopped him. Suddenly, Chloe wasn’t the damsel in distress anymore. Chloe had money. A driver’s license with her name on it. A telephone with her husband’s number on speed dial. Chloe had a life of her own.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
She opened the door, and she was barefoot, no make-up, her eyes were swollen and red, and she was perfect. “Why are you here?”
“To apologize.” It wasn’t exactly what he needed to say, but it was step one, the first of what was probably twelve, because God knows, he needed a twelve-step program to do a relationship right.
“Is that all?” Her brow lifted, because she could read his mind so well.
“No,” he answered.
Blue eyes blazed with anger. Waiting. He thought that was a good sign. She could have slammed the door in his face. She could have called the police. But instead, she was waiting. For him.
“Tell me about your husband.” He thought he should start there, because her marriage seemed to be the largest obstacle in the room.
She slammed the door in his face.
Obviously her husband was not the largest obstacle in the room.
From down below in the lobby, Eric could hear the carolers singing. He peered over the stairwell and saw Santa Claus watching him, smiling, like some secret code. And what the hell did Santa know?
Obviously not enough. It was going to take more than a few Christmas carols and a stocking full of sheet ash to repair the damage that he’d done to her. There were no songs to sing, no words that he could say.
And then Eric began to smile.
Yes, there were. They were buried in his closet, stuffed in a shoebox between an old tennis trophy and a pair of never-used hip waders.
He took the steps two at a time, tipping his head to St. Nick in the lobby. Maybe, maybe. He hadn’t let himself dare to hope, to dream, until now. Maybe it was the Christmas tree, maybe it was the twinkle in Santa’s eye. Maybe it was the piece of his heart that finally clicked firmly into place.
* * *
CHLOE TOLD HERSELF that she didn’t care. It didn’t matter that he had left. It was better this way. He didn’t love her. He had never loved her. He didn’t love her fat, he didn’t love her beautiful. In the end, Eric Marshall and Chloe Skidmore would never be together forever.
The world didn’t roll that way, no matter what fantasies she wove, and it was time that she wised up and moved away.
Time to leave Pine Crest for good.
But first, one small bit of business. She called the police department, and spoke to a very nice lieutenant. In detail, she explained that it was Teague Price who had torched the old mansion. Teague Price who had torched her home.
But not her home any longer.
After she hung up, she stared at the meager possessions that she’d brought with her to Pine Crest. Her great plan for revenge.
Ha!
She had an apartment in Baltimore. She knew that, and a tidy business making curtains and doing room design. Furious with herself, she threw open her suitcase and stuffed her perfect J. Mendel dress back into the tiniest pocket where she couldn’t see it. She wasn’t going to destroy it. It’d cost her too much money, and while Chloe felt comfortable destroying Marshall property, she was a little smarter with her own.
Her toothbrush joined her dress, and the black silk underwear that she’d bought only for him. Ha.
Like she’d ever let him see it again. Not in this lifetime and not in the next. As she scraped her toiletries off the sink, she muttered to herself, condemning the Marshall family to all sorts of vile punishments involving scorpions and ants and mosquitoes, mostly localized in the lower regions of the body, metaphorically speaking, of course.
Just as she finished, her belongings all gathered, and the last of her great revenge plot zipped shut, she heard a sound outside her door. At first she thought it was the carolers, but this was something different. Carolers didn’t sound like Savage Garden. They didn’t sing “Truly Madly Deeply” at Christmastime.
And then she caught the sound of a new voice. Louder, not so perfect, but the words were clear. Eric Marshall was singing outside her door, and judging by the loud yelling, the other hotel residents weren’t very happy, but he didn’t stop. He sang about loving her with every breath that he took, and Chloe felt herself tremble. She slid down against the door, to really listen to the words, to hope against hope that this wasn’t a dream, that it wasn’t a wish, that it wasn’t just a fantasy. And just when she had convinced herself that maybe it was real, the music died. The people next door yelled, “Thank God!” Then a new song began.
The next one was the Backstreet Boys, “As Long As You Love Me.” He showed some real boy-band potential on that one, although the hotel security guard didn’t see it that way. Until he realized who was singing.
“Mr. Marshall? You feeling okay? We can take you downstairs, let you sleep it off.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“’Course not, sir.”
“Chloe!”
She stayed silent for a long, long time, still not trusting this. Not trusting her ears, her mind, but in the end it was her heart that she put her faith in, and she cracked open the door.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
Then she slammed the door in his face.
He knocked on the door again, louder. “Chloe?”
She cracked open the door. “Yes?”
“I love you.”
She slammed the door again.
They went through this four times before she finally realized that this time, he wasn’t going to walk away.
This time when she cracked open the door, she invited him inside her room. To talk. They had a lot to talk about. Twelve years’ worth of talk, and Chloe was determined that she wasn’t going to be easy. Not this time. So she stayed in the wing chair near the window and waited for him to speak.
“Do you love your husband?”
“No,” she confessed.
He grinned at that. “Good. Santa bets he was an ass. You can get a divorce. Oh, God, do you want to get a divorce?”
“I don’t need to get a divorce.”
He looked at her, clearly offended. “Yes, you do. You’re mine. In the eyes of this town. In my eyes and the eyes of the law, you have to get a divorce. I don’t do that. Except for that one time. Twice. Maybe three times, however you want to count it, but I have principles. I’m a Marshall.”
Chloe took a deep breath, and blurted out the truth. “I don’t have a husband. It was fake. I wanted to come back, to show you, to show everybody that I’d got the guy of my dreams.”
She’d braced herself for anger, or some other “she’s done it again” sort of reaction, but he only looked relie
ved.
“Thank God. I am so not an adulterer.”
“What’s your father going to say?”
Eric laughed. “Nothing good. We’ll go to the gala. The Firemen’s Ball is tonight, remember? You’ll wear the family diamonds, and then I get to introduce you and watch his eyes pop out of their sockets.”
“So you can get back at him? Is this another rebellion?”
“Another rebellion? I’ve never rebelled against my father in my life. Passive-aggressive, all the way. No, this is about me recovering the love of my life, and getting the added pleasure of having my parents admit that I am my own man.”
“You always have been.”
“In a very passive-aggressive sort of way.”
He was smiling, and happy, and his heart was there in his eyes. “Do you love me because I’m skinny now? And beautiful?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth fell open, and Eric laughed.
“Do you know when I made that tape for you, Chloe?”
“I’m hoping twelve years ago, because if you just now cranked it out, this relationship is over.”
He came and sat on the floor by her feet, and took her hand, tracing over the place where the wedding ring had been. “Actually, it was thirteen. I’m a little slow that way.”
It was odd seeing a Marshall at her feet, not the traditional way of things, and Chloe felt a fluttering in her heart. “I love that you’re slow that way.”
“You love me because I’m slow?” The hard gray eyes were lit within. Twin points of melted silver were burning. For her.
“Yes,” she admitted happily.
“You love me?”
“I have always loved you. From the day I took my first breath. And I will love you until I take my last breath. There is no other man for me. There never will be.”
He pulled at her hand, pulled her down to the carpet, where they were eye to eye. Heart to heart. “Stay with me, Chloe Skidmore. Stay here. Stay home. Forever.”
He met her halfway, their lips touching, and outside the sweet strains of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” rang in her ears. It was going to be a Merry Christmas. The very best Christmas ever.
* * * *
Candace Havens
A Hot December Night
To my mom for all the wonderful Christmases, and Heather Long for showing me how blessed I am she is my friend.
Contents
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1
ASSISTANT FIRE CHIEF Jason Turner commits mass murder during Christmas gala committee meeting!
Jason imagined what the other headlines would be if he had to endure one more minute of this meeting with the most argumentative people on Earth.
Argumentative and crazy.
The pillars of Pine Crest loved to listen to themselves talk. Their voices pinged off the brick walls of the conference room at the courthouse to the point where they sounded like a bunch of angry birds shrieking at one another.
Kill me now! he begged the universe.
You’re an evil Grinch.
Yes, and I have every reason to be.
This time of year made him edgy. Whenever he turned a corner, or the phone rang or someone gave him a strange look, Jason worried that the Christmas curse would hit again. Nothing ever seemed to go right this time of year.
His grandfather had lost the family farm in a poker game on Christmas Eve forty years ago. His grandmother died on Christmas just two years ago. And being a fireman he’d seen the worst the holiday had to offer. Family homes destroyed by a string of lights, or stockings hung too close to the fire.
In his book, being forced to attend these meetings was a form of the curse. He adored these women when he had to deal with them one at a time. But all of them in the same room together was his version of hell.
Matchmakers. Busybodies. Mommies. Grandmothers with eligible and some not-so-eligible granddaughters, nieces and more. Women who liked to fix problems could be handled one at a time. Together, the pack could turn on him.
The throbbing in his head intensified.
They were hashing out details for the fundraiser to rebuild the Price Mansion, which had been significantly damaged in a recent fire. Jason had saved a life that night, but the fire still haunted him. They all did. He always wondered if there was more he and his team could have done.
Jason rubbed his temple.
Old Mrs. Randolph bumped his leg under the table for the third time. The bumps were followed by a pat on his knee. If she weren’t close to ninety he might be worried she was flirting with him.
The chief must really hate me.
The Firemen’s Annual Christmas Eve Ball committee had approached the chief first. He told them he was “too busy,” and that Jason would be more than happy to take his place.
Too busy. Right.
Maybe too busy playing online poker and eating Christmas cookies the town widows had made him. Even with the peanut-butter gut, as the chief called the roll around his belly, the old man was still a catch—at least according to the widows. That wasn’t saying much. There weren’t many bachelors in Pine Crest.
“Assistant Chief Turner, what are your thoughts on the auction at the ball?” The sweet and sexy voice of Kristen Lovejoy broke through his reverie. The party planner was perfect in almost every way with her curly blond hair, voluptuous figure and sky-blue eyes that seemed to know way too much for a woman her age. Perfect, except for her passion for the holidays.
She was the one who always brought Christmas snacks and little holiday surprises for the committee. This was a committee meeting, not a party. And she was so cheerful. Jason had never seen her without a smile on her face.
Everyone stared at him. Jason cleared his throat and searched for something to say. “If you want men to bid, you’re going to need stuff guys like,” he said quickly, as though he’d been thinking about it all along.
“Stuff?” She gave him a sweet smile but her eyebrow rose as if she knew she had caught him daydreaming.
“Yes, autographed pictures of sports stars, or memorabilia. I have a friend who might be able to help us out with some of that, and I know the fire chief has a huge collection. He might be willing to donate something for such a good cause.” That would teach the old man to shove him into these miserable committee meetings.
“And you might want to check with Lana over at the travel agency to see if she could offer a free cruise. I bet that would bring in a lot of cash.” Jason was on a roll.
Glancing around the table he noticed the women had their mouths gaping open.
“What? Did I say something wrong?” Jason sat up straighter in his chair. Why were they looking at him like that?
Kristen cleared her throat. “Um, no. That was— That is to say, those are wonderful ideas. Would you like to talk to the chief about the donation?”
“Oh, no. That’s not a good idea. Not to be sexist, but a pretty face would go a long way in getting him to give up some of his prized possessions.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Peterson who had the look of a raven about her. The town librarian, she had a beaklike nose and eyes as black as coal. Jason wasn’t afraid of much, but the older woman gave him pause. “Kristen, you’ll talk to the chief. Mr. Turner, it’s nice that you were able to contribute something.”
Jason bit back a smile. He had to admit he had done little the last few meetings other than sit and stare at Kristen. She was a prize in their town and the men had to be lining up to take her out. What chance did he really have? He could throw his hat in the ring, but then would have to put up with the town gossips watching his every move.
“We’ll get together again on Friday afternoon at 3:00 p.m.,” the old raven said. “Meeting adjourned.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Finally. He had just enough time to go home, change out of his uniform and get ready for poker night with
the guys. Mike Reynolds would not be taking any part of Jason’s paycheck this week. He had a strategy, which involved getting that lucky Mike drunk and sending him home in a taxi. No one ever said poker was fair, and Jason needed all the help he could get. His brother, Jeb, had called Jason the worst poker player ever; unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. But Jason loved the game.
“Mr. Turner?” That voice again. Where the other women sounded like vultures screeching, Kristen’s voice was like a puffy white cloud that settled gently around him.
What was it about her? They had shared a few commiserating glances over the last week, and he’d been curious about her since the first day she’d been introduced to the committee. He admired the way she handled these women, and her patience was that of Job. Still, she always managed to push through on her agenda and get what she wanted.
He didn’t know much about her except that she’d quit some corporate party planning job in Manhattan and moved to Pine Crest six months ago. Word was her mother had a house here, but it had been vacant for years. While Jason didn’t believe in gossip, it was helpful when one wanted to know about beautiful women who’d arrived in town.
More than once he had thought about asking her out, but there was something about her that screamed commitment. She wasn’t like the women he usually dated. And he wasn’t looking for anything long-term.
Maybe that’s why you can’t stop thinking about her. She’s off-limits.
He pushed in his chair. “Please, call me Jason.” He wanted to hear her say his name.
She gave him a quick nod. “Jason, I wondered if I might ask you a few questions about the memorabilia. Are you available for coffee?”
The smoky gaze she gave him caught him off guard, but his body reacted accordingly.
Was she asking him out? Did he dare? It occurred to him that spending time with her wasn’t the best idea for his sanity.
It’s just coffee.
She smiled and he knew he would do whatever she wanted. He had a feeling he could deny this woman nothing, and it scared him.
“If you’re busy, perhaps another time,” she said quickly.
