Yule Be Mine

by Charlene Teglia

  She slid to the floor and stood with her hand dramatically over her heart. “Until I see you again, my hero, farewell.” Then she speedily made her exit before he could catch her and make her pay for her impertinent antics.

  She was going to have to do some fancy footwork herself to stay on schedule. Fortunately she could work in whatever odd hours she had free. And even an hour could be very productive if she was organized. It might take some thought, but she would have plenty of time to enjoy every wonderful minute of holiday festivities.

  She would even find an opportunity to throw Luke Foster to the ground and make wild, reckless, abandoned snow angels with him ... or her name wasn't Jordan Christian.

  Jordan grinned at the thought as she bounded through the dusting of snow to her car. Soon the inches would add up. Snowmen, sleigh rides, snowball fights ... she could hardly wait.

  Thinking of snow, she was pretty sure her brothers were both convinced Luke was for real and as impressed as they were likely to get with someone they didn't hand-pick for her themselves. Something to be thankful for. Appropriate for Thanksgiving weekend.

  The uproar hadn't driven Luke away, either. He was rough and tough enough to take even a gang of Christians. Yes, she'd made the perfect choice, Jordan thought again contentedly.

  And then she laughed out loud as she remembered his face as he peeled that endless mountain of potatoes. She had weaseled out of it, after all. Lawrence would hear about it, she was sure.

  Instead of carrying out his threat to get her, though, Luke had watched the snow with her. Then he'd rubbed her icy hands to warm them while the heater in his sedan chased away the chill.

  Luke, she decided as she drove home, was a very nice man. She couldn't ask for a better fiancé.

  As long as he didn't kiss her. That, she thought sorrowfully, could ruin everything.

  Too bad, really, because his kisses were a terrible temptation to risk ruining everything for.

  Think of Seymour, Jordan, she told herself sternly. Remember what's at stake. Did she want to find herself under the mistletoe with Seymour? Did she?

  She shuddered violently at the thought, then parked neatly in her driveway and headed inside.

  No, she didn't want to end up under the mistletoe with Seymour, and if she had to resist temptation to avoid that—well, even a professional sinner could learn to resist.

  Couldn't she?

  Tossing her cape and shoulder bag on a chair, Jordan paused to admire her blooming Christmas cactus. Luke really had kept his promise. Every day something that could be considered a flower arrived. Lilies. A cloisonné pin. The cactus. Rose oil in a glass decanter. It was wonderfully unpredictable, but all still legitimately within the floral boundaries.

  Ha. Luke might claim to follow the rules, but he really did make them, first. His choices were largely unorthodox, pushing the description of flowers to the limit. He just might be a bit lawless himself. A bit of a reckless rebel.

  A heady thought.

  And he was all hers ... at least for the holidays. Now she just needed to decide what to wear to Aaron's get-together and find a dress for the fantasy picture. She had a collection of costumes from previous Halloweens and she occasionally picked up vintage clothing. She just might already have something.

  Jordan rummaged through her closets in a happy tangle of fabric, shoes and odds and ends. She found a mermaid costume a shell away from wearable. It had had an unfortunate accident, if she remembered right. Gave new meaning to making a clean breast of a situation.

  A ridiculous turn-of-the-century bathing suit. Jordan shook her head, wondering if that would ever see the light of day again. Back in those days, they'd had serious UV protection.

  Then she found it. A pale yellow silk vintage gown from the late 1800's. The tightly fitted jacket-style bodice cut wonderfully low was boned and padded and would make even Jordan spill voluptuously out without need of embellishing or ripping. It fastened up the back with a thousand tiny hooks. Below the fitted waist, a padded bustle draped over the skirt in the rear.

  Jordan held it up and smiled at the sight. If the man in black wouldn't stop for this, his hat was riding too low and blocking out the scenery.

  She dug deeper, but didn't find vintage boots or undergarments. Well, she'd have to improvise. Or have Wendy leave her feet out of the picture, or paint in the appropriate footwear. She'd just pose barefoot. As for underneath...

  Jordan gazed at the dress and felt a wicked thrill. For something like this, only her scantiest panties would work. Actually, she thought she had a pair of lace tap pants. Completely see-through, designed to display, not cover. She dug through a drawer and produced the scandalous wisp of black.

  "Eureka!” Jordan crowed, and tossed the naughty undies on top of the dress.

  Now that would put the man in black in shock, she thought in satisfaction. Paralysis guaranteed. Peep at your own risk. It really was going to be some painting.

  Jordan stuffed everything back into the closet except for the items she needed to pose in for the painting. The mermaid costume she set on top of the shelf so she could easily find it again. Some time when she wanted to come out of her shell. Then she flipped through her normal clothes in search of something that wasn't overly holiday-ish. There would be plenty of other occasions for sequined and beaded sweaters and such.

  On a whim, she decided to wear black in case an opportunity to steal Luke's imaginary hat presented itself. Or, for all she knew, he really did have the hat he'd worn in the first painting. Still, it was the spirit of the thing.

  Black silk trousers with a matching camisole. A black velvet jacket, short and fitted at the waist, with the lapels crossed in a deep vee to make it appear as if there just might be cleavage to be glimpsed. A pair of black satin high heels, as if it made a difference in her height. A great outfit, Jordan decided as she looked over the pieces.

  Then she took her time getting ready, lingering in a tub of hot water into which she had added a generous splash of rose oil, singing carols in a lilting voice. By the time Luke arrived to collect her, she was revved up to party and looking forward to more—and she'd just artfully dodge any stray mistletoe that might interfere with her plans.

  Jordan opened the door with a flourish in her satin and velvet. Luke struck a gratifying pose of paralysis. That it wasn't a pose became clear when he recovered enough to start shouting.

  It was an astonishing sight. His eyes became stabbing blue beams of sudden death. His tensed muscles appeared to swell in size. He took two strides to confront her, grabbed her shoulders and roared out, “Go put on some clothes!"

  Really. As if she wasn't dressed.

  Jordan glared back in instant fury. “There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing."

  "You aren't wearing anything!"

  "Yes, I am, Luke,” she answered patiently. “Look. A jacket, shoes, pants, a—"

  He interrupted to shout, “I don't want to know! Don't say it! Whatever it is, it isn't enough to keep you in. You're half naked."

  Now she was offended. “Oh. And if I was half naked, that would be a bad thing? I'm a Medusa look-alike?” Jordan demanded in outrage.

  He opened his mouth to bellow some more, but stopped. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and hauled her up against his chest. She waited. Finally he said, in a rough, strained voice, “Jordan. You're beautiful. It's a beautiful jacket.” Then he roared at full volume, “And if you don't put something under it, it's going to become permanently un-wearable!"

  It was too coincidental that this conversation was taking place the day she'd come across the unfortunate mermaid costume. The very same conversation had occurred the night she'd worn that, only Gary had been the one roaring in her face.

  "But, Luke, I have something under it,” she tried to explain.

  He groaned as if she were putting him on the rack and turning the screws. “No, Jordan, no, you don't. There is nothing under that jacket but you and we aren't leaving until you change."


  "But, Luke—"

  "Jordan!” His shout was enough to give her a permanent headache, she thought irritably.

  Since he wouldn't listen, she ripped open the jacket to demonstrate. Or tried to. He grabbed the lapels, hauled them shut and started swearing in ways she didn't know had been invented. It was impressive. She was a writer, and she didn't know those words could be used in that combination. She wanted to take notes, but was afraid to, under the circumstances. He was really very upset.

  "Get in there, Jordan, and put something else on, and do it now,” Luke said in a voice that threatened death and dismemberment at the very least if she failed to comply.

  She guessed he didn't like camisoles.

  Charm wouldn't cover this occasion. Stubbornness would have to do. Mutinously Jordan dug in her tiny heels, crossed her arms, glared and announced, “If you don't like it, you change it. I'm not going to."

  She'd shocked him, she saw in satisfaction. He stared. She glared. Then he picked her up by her elbows, carried her into her bedroom and started to ransack her closet. He grabbed the biggest, heaviest, bulkiest sweater she owned, a Shetland wool knit at least an inch thick that didn't even remotely go with her pants and started towards her with it.

  That did it. Jordan yanked off the jacket before he could stop her and stood there with her hands on her hips, the perfectly proper—in her opinion—camisole bared to his sight.

  "I am not wearing that sweater!” She barked the words at him in a blinding rage.

  He pinned her in place and hauled the sweater over her head without saying a word, then pulled each hand through the bulky sleeves while she silently resisted and struggled like a three-year-old having a tantrum. Then he picked her up by the waist as if she was an awkward package and carried her bodily to the car and dumped her in.

  At Aaron's she refused to speak or get out, so he picked her up again and carted her to the door. The door was opened by Aaron's wife, Tess.

  "Luke, Jordan, come in,” she invited with a wide smile. The smile dimmed and died as she saw the simmering, silent rebellion on Jordan's face and the implacable expression on Luke's. She cleared her throat faintly and stepped away to let them pass.

  Jordan waited a minute, then gave Luke a killing look before she said, “Hi, Tess. We would have been here sooner but Luke thinks I don't know how to dress myself."

  She saw Tess eye her unusual fashion statement in some amazement. Jordan's fury ebbed as quickly as it had risen, and her normal sense of mischief began to stir.

  There would be retribution, she vowed. He wanted to drag his family into their little spat? Fine. He'd get just that. In spades.

  She slowly, haltingly, walked in and allowed the merest quiver to touch her lips. As if she were fighting tears. Actually, she was fighting laughter, but there would be time for that later. She fully intended to laugh last tonight.

  There was no doubt that Luke was on to her. It didn't stop her. In fact, he played right into her hands. As she drooped with dejection, he vibrated with ever more tangible rage. Her pitiful outfit spoke volumes. Without saying a word, she denounced Luke as a fashion criminal to the whole clan. And worse, a chauvinistic autocrat.

  In sympathy, wives glared at husbands. Then every feminine eye in the room turned accusingly on poor, helpless Luke. Followed by every accusing male eye, as they silently blamed him for getting them all in trouble by association.

  Wendy came up to put a glass of wine in Jordan's hand and put a protective arm around her slight shoulders, now considerably bulked up by the enormous sweater that appeared to be swallowing her whole.

  Jordan took the glass with a pale, shaking hand and sniffed, “Thanks.” She gave Wendy a look of gratitude that proportionately increased the look of rage Wendy was giving Luke.

  Jordan sipped the wine as if bolstering her spirits in the time honored way. As she did, she reflected that this might very well prove to be her finest hour as an actress.

  "What happened, Jordan?” Wendy inquired sympathetically as she continued to glare daggers at her brother.

  Jordan shivered, sniffed and brushed at one eye with the back of her hand. “Nothing,” she said in a small voice.

  "Jordan...” Luke growled in warning.

  She raised pitifully brimming eyes to his, lips trembling. “Don't yell at me again.” She sniffed audibly.

  "Jordan.” The warning increased.

  Ignoring him, she turned to Wendy with a watery smile. “That's a really lovely outfit."

  Wendy accepted the compliment and started to return it, then checked herself as she took in the woolen horror overwhelming the dressy pants and heels. There wasn't a single nice thing anyone could say about what Jordan was wearing, and everyone knew it.

  "You look, ah,” Wendy hesitated and searched for something diplomatic to say. “Warm,” she finally concluded.

  Jordan gave her an angelic smile. “I am,” she agreed sweetly.

  Luke was too far away to stop her, but he saw it coming. She pulled off the sweater just as he let loose with a bellow that could start an avalanche and the sweater hit the floor a bare moment before he slapped his suit jacket over her bare shoulders.

  But not before her scandalous silk camisole made its party debut, after all.

  Pandemonium broke out. Luke started shouting at her again, at full volume and in graphic, gory detail as he described her coming retribution. Reactions ranging from gasps to dropped dishes presaged the full-scale riot that ensued.

  Half of the members in the group tried to protect Jordan from Luke and the other half started to throw their jackets in as reinforcements.

  Everyone was shouting, including Aunt Cora, and in the midst of it all, Jordan started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. By her standards, the party was a raging success. A triumph. A moment to savor and cherish.

  Her legs gave out and she fell into Luke's arms, helpless with mirth. He caught her and never missed a beat, shouting all the while. Laughing until she cried, Jordan threw her arms around his neck and tried to hold on. The more she laughed, the louder he yelled, until finally he stopped as if realizing how futile it was.

  She brushed one small hand against his cheek to turn his face towards hers, giggling irresistibly, merriment alive in her sparkling eyes. He sighed. She continued to laugh.

  "You're shameless, hopeless and uncontrollable,” he announced.

  "You forgot incorrigible,” she offered helpfully.

  "No, I didn't. I wasn't done yet."

  "Oh. Sorry. Do go on,” she encouraged, still giggling.

  "You're an imp. A fiend. Irreclaimable, intractable and utterly beyond redemption."

  "Those are very big words,” she informed him approvingly.

  Luke gave up. He hugged her, buried his face in her shock of white hair and laughed, while the family exchanged looks of incredulity.

  It served him right, he admitted silently. He'd wanted her to wreak havoc on his family. He'd even looked forward to it. And she'd done just that. This night would live on in infamy. “The night Jordan wore a see-through camisole and started a riot” would never be forgotten.

  Luke looked down at the terribly pleased troublemaker clinging to him, looking nearly as ridiculous in his suit jacket as she had in her absurd sweater. Ridiculous and utterly charming.

  He smiled at her and set her back from him just far enough to be able to button the jacket. “I can see you meant it when you said you wouldn't wear the sweater,” he conceded. Then he frowned as he saw that the size of his jacket on her, even buttoned, left far too much of her still bare. She was too tiny for there to be that much of her in the first place, he thought.

  Luke settled for wrapping the suit jacket around her twice and looked for something to fasten it with. He noticed that none of his supposedly loyal and concerned family members offered to help. All of them were on her side.

  Jordan was still grinning from ear to ear, her dimples showing deeply. He sighed. “Can we make a deal?"

  "I'm always w
illing to be reasonable,” she answered.

  "You don't know the meaning of the word. Will you please, for my sake, keep this on for the rest of the night?"

  "Do you admit you were wrong?"

  He frowned at her. “Don't push it, Jordan. Just wear the jacket."

  She sighed dramatically. “Since you ask so charmingly, I suppose I can't refuse.” She cooperated, folding her arms over the fabric to keep it firmly in place and smiled sweetly at him.

  Luke tucked her just as firmly against his side. He wasn't about to turn her loose again. There was no telling what she might do next. The punch bowl was still standing upright and he intended to see that it stayed that way.

  He gave Wendy a frown, since she was still standing there looking both pleased and entertained. If there ever was a situation to bull his way through, this was it. As if nothing untoward had occurred, he said, “Good evening, Wendy."

  Wendy fought laughter and lost. Aunt Cora announced loudly, “Things are certainly more interesting now that you've gotten engaged, Luke."

  Luke privately agreed. Whatever else you could call it, interesting certainly described the situation well. First he'd planned to foist a fake fiancée on his family, then he found himself falling prey to the temptation to turn the lie into truth. And neither plan took Jordan into account.

  He found himself wondering what plans she was concocting.

  Chapter Seven

  Jordan was still smiling as Luke drove her home. She saw him glance her way as they passed under a street light and took advantage of the illumination to grin widely at him.

  "Still proud of yourself, are you, imp?” Luke asked wryly.

  "Definitely,” she agreed. “I originally planned to swipe your hat tonight, and instead I got your jacket. I'm a triumph. I amaze myself."

  "You are amazing, I'll give you that,” he stated. “You single-handedly turned a formal Foster affair into a barroom brawl without getting a hair out of place."

  "More praise.” She beamed and pretended to swoon. “I did tell you that flattery would get you everywhere.” She settled more comfortably into her corner and put her feet on the space between them as she faced him.