One Magical Christmas

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Diet!’ she warned herself, turning round and grimacing at her bottom, but at least it was tanned—brown fat was certainly more attractive than white! Yes, in the new year she was definitely going on diet.

  ‘But after we get back!’ she promised her reflection. Then she promptly forgot about it as she bopped along to the music, glad by the time that she’d finished and jet-lag had hit that Angus’s kids were at his sister’s and Heath was with Brad, so that she could now head down to the kitchen, grab a cup of tea and crawl back into bed before Angus came home.

  Then she heard his key in the front door.

  Eyes wide, her face red from exertion, Imogen wondered what she should do. She could just stand in the bathroom and hope he didn’t notice or she could make a dash to her room. But if he looked up he’d see her running across the landing and she could hear his foot on the bottom step now so, not wanting to stink of bleach, she sprayed a generous dash of perfume and forced a smile on her face as she headed out to meet him.

  Tired, grumpy and freezing, all Angus wanted to do as he put the key in the front door and headed up the stairs was to fall into bed.

  Tired, because he’d been up all night.

  Grumpy, because his shirt, suit and tie had lasted till seven a.m. but were now in a plastic bag, awaiting a trip to the dry cleaner’s. Tossing the bag in the corner, he decided to deal with that unpleasant task later.

  Freezing, because hair wet from a quick shower at work and dressed now in threadbare theatre gear, he’d found out five minutes from home that he really should have stopped for petrol at the last garage.

  The heat hit him as soon as he stepped into the hall—the place was like a sauna!

  He didn’t have the energy to work out why—all he wanted was bed.

  Till he saw Imogen standing on the landing.

  ‘Morning!’

  ‘Morning!’ Angus gave what he hoped was a normal smile as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, trying not to look surprised or to comment on the fact that she was wearing nothing other than a red bikini. He failed miserably on both counts. ‘Imogen!’ He gaped. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘I was just cleaning the shower…’

  ‘You wear a bikini to clean the shower?’

  ‘No!’ She gave him a very old-fashioned look. ‘Normally I wear nothing to clean the showers, but given this is your home…’

  Picking up a sliver of silver fabric from the floor, she wrapped it around her rather magnificent bosom. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’

  ‘Nope!’ Funny that he had to feign a yawn now. ‘I’m going straight to bed, I want to grab a few hours before I pick up the kids.’

  ‘I’ll pick up the kids,’ Imogen offered. ‘You should have something to eat and then you’ll sleep well.’

  He’d sleep well without something to eat, Angus was about to say, but she was walking down the stairs and was passing him now, and it would seem rude just to head on up. So Angus followed her into the kitchen, yawning again, but for real this time, as he sat on a barstool and poured some muesli into a bowl as Imogen screwed up her nose.

  ‘I’ll make you some pancakes.’

  ‘Muesli’s fine.’

  ‘Not after a night shift!’ Imogen said, tipping the lot into the bin and, Angus realised, refusing to look at him. ‘It will only take a moment.’

  ‘Great,’ Angus said.

  ‘There’s some mango left…’ She pulled it from the fridge, holding up half a fruit, and without waiting for his reply ran the knife along the plump fruit, scoring it into little crosses, then pushing her fingers onto the soft skin and inverting it so that all the fruit poked up into little squares and it felt strangely erotic.

  She probably walked around like this at home all the time, Angus frantically reasoned. Wandering around the house in a bikini was probably the norm where she came from. Only there were kangaroos in Australia too, but he didn’t expect to see one when he looked out of the window. Still, Angus told himself, she no doubt spent her entire day wearing as little as possible—only that thought wasn’t exactly helping matters either!

  The huge kitchen was claustrophobically tiny now, and he could see her freckly breasts jiggling before his eyes as she whipped up the batter.

  ‘Won’t be long!’ Imogen smiled.

  ‘The heating’s high…’ Angus said gruffly.

  ‘Is it?’ Imogen shrugged.

  He could hear the batter sizzling as it hit the frying pan. Her back was to him and it was brown, this gorgeous brown that was so rare these days. Her tan not perfect because he could see the straps where another bikini must have been, could see the freckles that showered her back, only it looked pretty perfect to him…

  ‘Here.’ Leaning over the bench, she handed him breakfast and as she leant forward he could see the white of her breast as her bikini shifted, saw a little bit of Imogen that had never seen the sun. He knew she’d caught him looking because she was looking at him too, knew because the already hot room was stifling now. The bubbling steam from the kettle nothing compared to the cauldron sizzling between them. Three days after one’s marriage ended was arguably the best or worst time to act on impulse—only Angus wasn’t actually thinking about that.

  For ages his marriage had been over and there was this assumption, from his mother, from Gemma, even from Imogen at first, that he must, in that time, have been seeing someone else. As if coping with the demise and subsequent end of his marriage couldn’t have been enough to keep him occupied. Oh, they hadn’t come right out and said it, but he could sense they thought there had to be more.

  Well, there hadn’t been anyone.

  But, yes, there was more.

  Pushing a plate towards him, loaded with pancakes and mango and syrup, Angus’s mouth should have been watering, only it was a touch dry as he realised that there was way more to it than anyone knew.

  And he was looking right at her.

  Only now Imogen wasn’t looking away, as she always had before. In fact, she was looking right at him. For the first time in the longest time, the first time for ages, the woman Angus wanted was looking back at him…

  And with want in her eyes.

  He was beautiful.

  She’d known that from the start.

  And he was nice.

  She’d known that too.

  But that this august yet tender man might actually want her in the way she wanted him was, for Imogen, a revelation.

  Embarrassed at being caught in her bikini, she’d attempted casual—had, oh, so casually covered herself with her sarong and wished, as she often did, that she’d kept to her diet, or even considered that he might come home early. There were so many things Imogen hadn’t factored in, and seeing the want in his eyes as she’d come down the stairs had been one of them.

  Oh, she’d dismissed it, told herself she was imagining things.

  But, standing in the kitchen, attempting to be normal, she could hear the fizz of arousal sizzling around them. She tried to tell herself over and over that she was misreading things, that it was her want that she could sense and not his.

  Only it was everywhere.

  She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her back as she turned away, could feel his need in the stifling air she dragged into her tight chest. Awareness in every jerky movement, she was scared to turn around, scared that he might see the tumble of emotions that were coursing through her.

  Because, as the kettle rattled to the boil, as she slid the plate she’d prepared towards him, Imogen knew it was impossible, knew that Angus Maitlin could have any woman he wanted…

  Only he wanted her.

  Watching him stride towards her, she could taste him almost before he kissed her. His mouth on hers had been the last thing she’d expected on awakening, yet it was everything she needed now. Angus made her feel like a woman again, one who had come alive.

  For Angus it was the easiest walk of his life.

  Used to making difficult decisions in an instant
, this one was actually incredibly easy. Oh, he’d wrestled with it for days, had gone over every argument in his head as to why it would never happen, why it could never work, had told himself that he was imagining things, that this vibrant stunning woman saw him as nothing more than a colleague and a friend…

  Till she looked up and he saw the pink flush that was ever present in her cheeks spread across her neck and down her chest. He registered the tiny swallow in her throat, and for Angus, walking round the bench and over to her came as naturally as breathing—in fact, more naturally, because breathing was proving difficult right now, his lungs taut. His hands rested on the tops of her arms and he felt her tremulous body beneath them, a body that didn’t want soothing, her skin soft and smooth beneath his fingers. He noticed a bergamot note to her perfume as his face neared hers, and it would have been so easy to kiss her then, but haste would have deprived him of seeing those pale blue eyes, black now with pupils dilated with lust. The scent of her skin filled his nostrils and the arousal between them intensified as the feel of her soft cheek grazed against his. He wanted to taste her mouth now so he did, placing his lips on hers and closing his eyes at the exquisite sweetness of ripe flesh that wanted to taste him too—and taste him she did, sucking on his bottom lip. Her hands on his shoulders, fingers kneading lightly as thoroughly he kissed her back.

  ‘Oh, God, Imogen…’ He moaned her name as he pulled back, knowing that at this point it should stop, should merit discussion, acknowledgement, something…but the bliss of wanting was here and now and the bliss of being wanted was mind-blowing. She kissed him back, her response moist, lingering, slow, like a river inevitably rolling. He could feel her hands slipping under his theatre top, inquisitive fingers exploring his stomach. He didn’t want it to end, wanted also to explore this woman who wore a bikini and sarong on a freezing December morning—who had brought sunshine and warmth into what should have been the bleakest and coldest of winters. His hands, without guidance, were undoing the knot of her sarong, watching two red triangles strain against the gorgeous flesh of her breasts. He wanted to taste the woman who fed him fruit when he wanted bed, and pushing aside the bikini top he lowered his mouth. Her nipples were as hard as hazelnuts swelling in his mouth as he tasted her, his hand on her skin, her back, her waist, feeling the delicious, unfamiliar curves, the generous flesh that was for him, tasting the feel of want on his mouth, these myriad sensations as she kissed him back. And it felt so right—he’d come home this morning and it felt as if he were coming home to her now, to a kiss that had been waiting patiently, to a kiss that was almost familiar, because he’d been there before.

  He may have said goodnight to her from the day she’d moved in, but he’d met her only a couple of hours later in his dreams. And dreams didn’t match up to the real feel of her mouth on his, sucking him, kissing him, devouring him. Imogen, alive in his arms, and he was coming alive again too. In one easy shift she was sitting on the kitchen bench, sliding his theatre top over his head, and the moan of delight as she saw his torso had him so hard he had to slow himself down. Her fingers pressed harder into his shoulder, her hungry lips tasting his nipples now. Angus noticed there were still the last remnants of glitter on her nipple, this little glimmer of gold where there shouldn’t be, and he sucked at it, yet still it stayed. He flicked at the fleck again with his tongue, willing himself to slow down, but she was playing with the ties of his theatre bottoms now, pulling them down with some difficulty over his erection as he dealt with the far easier task of her bikini bottom ties.

  Alone in the kitchen, not a wedding ring between them, but there was a whole lot else. Staring into her pale blue eyes, seeing her blink, Angus knew she knew it too.

  ‘We shouldn’t…’ he half heartedly attempted, kissing her again.

  ‘We should,’ Imogen purred as she kissed him back.

  ‘You’ll be gone soon…’

  ‘I’m here now.’ She guided his hands to her sweetest place and as the pad of his thumb took her most intimate pulse, he tried one last attempt at reason.

  ‘It’s too soon…’ But her ankles were round his back and it felt like he’d been waiting for ever.

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘I’m crazy about you, Imogen,’ Angus gasped, hovering at her entrance, seeing the golden curls that beckoned him and desperate to enter, her breathless response all the invitation required as he plunged in blissfully.

  ‘Me, too!’

  It was like stumbling into paradise, feeling her legs coil around him as she dragged him in, smelling her, tasting her, feeling her. This stunning, beautiful woman was somehow as into him as much as he was into her. It was too much, and certainly too soon, and just as Angus tried to slow himself down, just as he forced himself to think about tax receipts and spreadsheets and anything mundane, she dragged him in deeper, her ankles coiling around his back, her head arching backwards, and he kissed the hollows of her throat. Angus knew that nothing was going to distract him now, and better still, as he felt her tighten, and heard these little throaty gasps come from the throat he was kissing, distraction was as unnecessary as it was impossible. He could feel the rhythm of her orgasm beating for him to join her in this heady place, and the only thing Angus was concentrating on was her, was Imogen, and how she made him feel. Then the heaven of his climax and the sheer pleasure of hers when it happened had his heart thumping a tattoo in his chest. As he held her after it all should have dimmed as reality invaded, as they were back in the kitchen having taken the biggest most reckless step of their lives. But, if anything, the world looked better.

  ‘Oh, Angus.’ Still inside her, still holding her, as blue eyes met his, there was no place he would rather have been. ‘What do you do to me?’

  ‘I could ask the same thing.’

  And it should have been awkward, only it wasn’t.

  And guilt was curiously absent as he kissed her again.

  There was not even a hint of uncertainty as she popped the pancakes in the microwave for all of thirty seconds, grabbed a fork and they both headed upstairs, just a tiny pause at the landing as he steered her to his bedroom.

  ‘My room,’ Imogen insisted. ‘I can’t do anything in there.’

  ‘I can’t do anything in the nanny’s room!’ Angus grinned. ‘Anyway, it’s a single bed!’

  ‘Brilliant!’

  ‘I thought I was getting an ulcer.’

  ‘You need to eat more regularly.’

  They were lying naked on her tiny bed, blinds closed on the skylight, the heating still up high and the radio still blaring, feeding each other mango in golden syrup, both discovering again what it felt like to be happy.

  Not fine, or OK, or getting there, but actually happy.

  Absolutely at ease, lost in the moment and just, well, happy.

  ‘I keep getting this pain, you see….’ Angus tapped his stomach. ‘Well, not a pain as such…right here…right here in my solar plexus.’

  ‘You poor baby!’ Imogen soothed, bending her head and kissing it better.

  ‘Every time I see your ex, either in the flesh or on the television, every time I hear Owen tell me how bloody fantastic that red-headed agency nurse is…’ He blew out a breath. ‘I didn’t realise it at the time, but this little network of nerves, that really don’t do much, scrunches into a ball every time…’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked up at him. ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Angus grimaced, because he’d never really been jealous before.

  ‘Well, don’t be!’ Imogen frowned. ‘Brad’s like one of your boxes under the tree—beautifully gift wrapped, but sadly empty. There’s nothing between us, nothing at all.’

  Tired now, he watched as she slipped under the sheet, watched her lovely face on the pillow, those blue eyes smiling at him, and it felt utterly right to join her and spoon his body in behind her, to place his hand on the curve where her waist met her bottom and just hold her, and utterly wrong that in two weeks she’d be gone.

 
; ‘Gemma’s boyfriend’s not Australian, by any chance?’ Imogen said, much later in that time before falling asleep.

  ‘Afraid not. Brad might get more work here…?’

  ‘He’s been offered a job on a children’s show back home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He wasn’t remotely tired now. Too used to sleeping alone, he had been trying to accommodate to the feel of her in his arms, trying to fathom out that this was real, as his mind, which was used to coming up with them, raced for a solution, for something, some way to hold on to what they had only just found. Only at every twist of his thoughts he was thwarted…

  Kids, careers, exes, schools—oh, and a tiny matter of ten thousand or so miles.

  And she waited, stared at the wall and waited for him to say that they’d work something out, waited for him to tell her that it would all be OK, that somehow it might work.

  Only he couldn’t.

  ‘We should keep it quiet,’ Angus said instead.

  ‘I wasn’t going to rush into work and put up a poster.’

  ‘I know.’ He felt her body stiffen, could hear the irritated edge in her voice, especially when she continued.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t damage your perfect reputation.’

  ‘Imogen.’ He put his hand up to her cheek, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and tried to voice what he was feeling. ‘It’s not just about my reputation—you go home soon, all it will look like to others is a fling…It’s about your reputation too.’

  ‘I know.’ She was glad she was facing away from him. Tears were stinging her eyes, knowing he was right and wishing it wasn’t so.

  ‘And it would be just so confusing for the kids….’

  ‘Of course.’ She gave a big sniff. ‘They don’t need to know anything.’ Which was right and everything, but it just made it seem like a dirty little secret. As if all they shared, all that had felt so right, was seemingly wrong. ‘You know…’ Imogen gave a pale smile. ‘…I always wondered what Heath would be like, you know, if I met someone…’