Christmas Star (Contemporary, Romance)

by Roz Denny Fox

“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Don’t throw that! It’s worth a mint. An original by a West Coast artist. My mom’s going to give it to my dad for Christmas.”

  The urgency in his voice stopped her. She blinked and felt the weight of the object she held raised above her head. Lord, what was she doing? She who hated scenes? Quickly she set it back and brushed her palms on her thighs. “You’re right. It’s much too nice to waste on a scuzzball like you.”

  She took a deep breath. “I was right all along. The first time I saw you I suspected you wanted to use me to discredit the senator. Now I see you want to use SeLi, too. Well, I won’t let you hurt her!” God, how could she have felt anything warm, anything romantic, for this jerk?

  At the moment Starr thought she hated Barclay McLeod. Thoroughly sick at heart, she turned and ran from the room.

  Clay took a moment to return his dad’s gift to the box that sat under his chair. It had come in the mail and he’d just opened it when the Manning woman called. As he set the package aside, he heard Starr talking earnestly to SeLi; that was followed by the slam of the front door. A slam hard enough to rattle the mullioned windows in his den.

  Clay lifted the curtain and watched her cross the clearing with long, rapid strides, SeLi trotting to keep up. Damn, he’d botched things for sure. Even now, he didn’t know the truth about SeLi Lederman.

  Someone, Morgan probably, turned on the porch light. It outlined two sets of footprints on the new-fallen snow. Ah. Good. At least with this weather, he didn’t have to worry about Starr pulling up stakes and running away.

  “Clay!”

  He heard the tremor in his sister-in-law’s voice. Poor Van. What would become of her when the media started ripping her family to shreds? And they would. Starr Lederman was dead wrong if she thought the voters of California would ignore Harrison’s indiscretions. Voters liked nothing better than the smell of scandal. And the juicier that scandal, the better.

  Clay let the curtain drop. Should he bide his time until Mrs. Manning called again, or hope Starr would reconsider and come clean? If all else failed, he could call Judge Forbes. Except then he’d have to say how sorry he was about Joel. Clay remembered the judge’s distress when he’d called to offer his condolences after he’d heard about the accident; he didn’t want to open any old wounds. “I’d better wait it out,” he muttered as he went to see what his sister-in-law needed.

  * * *

  THE COURIER’S PLANE had come and gone. Starr sat up long after she’d tucked SeLi into bed. Clay’s words continued to fester. As she’d said before, Harrison was the nicer brother.

  Plopping down in the tiny kitchen nook, Starr thumbed absently through SeLi’s math workbook. A photograph fell out, followed by another. She picked up the first—a picture of Morgan McLeod. She smiled. He must have given it to her. Morgan and SeLi. Two more unlikely friends she’d never known. This photo wasn’t current—a year or two old, she’d guess.

  She scooped the second picture up from where it had landed facedown, and her breath caught in her throat. Staring at her from the glossy, color print was Clay. The lens extolled the careless denim look he wore so well. The look that made blue jeans high art. He wore gleaming cowboy boots. One rested on the brick hearth, giving the appearance of studied ease. Blue eyes beckoned, although a faintly mocking smile told Starr he was only tolerating the photography session. He needed his hair cut, she noticed.

  Starr ran a finger over his broad chest. Some bodies spoke for themselves. The picture slipped through her shaking fingers. Why did SeLi have a picture of Clay? She wasn’t still entertaining any dangerous fantasies about him as her father, was she? Starr certainly hoped not.

  What was it Clay had said? Something stupid about blackmail, and... Starr closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it hit her like a meteor racing through a starry night. Harrison’s love child. She gasped. Was he implying that SeLi was Senator McLeod’s daughter?

  “My God, no!” Jumping up, she carried the picture of Morgan over to the light. What did she actually know about SeLi’s birth mother? Only that she’d been incredibly sick. And small, dark-haired, excruciatingly thin.

  Starr switched off the light and stumbled to bed. She welcomed the comfort of darkness. Even huddled under a mound of blankets, she couldn’t seem to get warm. She reminded herself that the senator had only gotten involved in the adoption because she needed someone to vouch for her. Or had he?

  She thought back to her own involvement with that situation on the wharf. Her dad had been on his way to film in Japan, and he’d stopped to take her to dinner. Harrison was at the restaurant with a group of friends. At one point he asked Samuel to join their party for an after-dinner drink. Starr would’ve gone home, but her dad insisted on toasting her new job at Fish and Game.

  She’d been flattered that after insisting she stay, the senator had asked her to look into a problem with people on the wharf getting sick. He insinuated the Department of Health wasn’t moving fast enough.

  It took some time for her to connect the illness to bad water. Not the drinking water, but wharf water—the fish they ate swam in it. The media usually blew things out of proportion, so she found it understandable that the senator and his team wanted the mess cleaned up without a lot of fanfare.

  At the time she’d assumed the senator had taken such an interest because a ship from a politically touchy country was involved. Or because it was his district and so many people were getting sick.

  Had she been naive? Was his interest, in fact, personal? She sat up and switched on the light. If SeLi was Harrison McLeod’s child, why had he allowed her to live in squalor? Unless he hadn’t known about her until then.

  Starr’s head ached. Suddenly a host of doubts assailed her. If the senator was so nice, so considerate, why had his lovely wife sought solace in the arms of his younger brother?

  And Clay. Starr couldn’t even bear to think about him. The complexity of his role in this mess was more than she dared tackle tonight.

  Sometime in the wee hours, she drifted into a troubled sleep.

  The smell of burned toast awakened her. Irrationally Starr wondered why SeLi always burned the toast.

  “Mom?” The little girl stuck her head pensively into Starr’s face. “Are you sick or somethin’? You normally get up way before me. Did you forget I’m going to work with the tutor this morning?” Dark eyes moved restlessly over Starr’s inert form. Since the death of her mother, illness of any kind worried SeLi.

  “Ugh!” Starr dragged herself from a tangle of blankets. “What time is it, Skeeter?” She yawned and squinted up at the curtained window. “Looks dark out. Isn’t it still night?”

  “It’s morning.” SeLi giggled. “It’s almost eight o’clock. The sky looks yucky, but it’s not snowing. What are you gonna do today?”

  Starr reached for her robe. With a quick twist, she sashed it around her middle. “Coffee first. Then I’ll decide. I’d like to do more exploring on the mountain today. Maybe you should come with me,” she said hesitantly.

  “Do I hafta? Morgan and me have fun.”

  Starr frowned. For two kids who were so different they got along surprisingly well. What did that mean? Siblings usually fought, didn’t they?

  “I guess you can stay.”

  “Yippee!” SeLi bounced up and down. “‘Cept the sky looks awful. Uncle Clay worried about you yesterday, and the sun was out. He probably won’t let you go today.”

  Starr paused with her hand on the coffeepot. She spun and faced the girl squarely. “SeLi, I’ve already told you—Barclay McLeod is not your uncle! He isn’t any relation at all. Got that?”

  “Jeez.”

  The hand pouring coffee shook. Starr watched the dark liquid slosh out and she snatched at a paper towel. “Another thing,” she said. “My work here does not concern Mr. McLeod at all.”

  SeLi eyed her with surprise, then gave a careless shrug and pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard. Filling the bowl to the rim, she said casually
, “I like Clay. I think he’s super.” As if that was an official proclamation, SeLi helped herself to a carton of milk. She poured it onto the cereal and slid into the tiny nook. Her bowl stopped inches from the photographs of Morgan and Clay. Her spoon clattered to the floor. The minute she retrieved it, dark, guilty eyes lifted to meet Starr’s. “Are you mad about the pictures, Mom?”

  “Should I be, honey?” Starr took a sip of coffee and waited while the girl squirmed. From experience she knew SeLi had more to get off her chest.

  “Remember when I heisted Clay’s billfold?” SeLi asked in a small voice. Without waiting for Starr’s confirmation, she plunged ahead. “I didn’t know he was Morgan’s uncle. I didn’t even know Morgan.”

  Starr nodded once for encouragement. She shoved the photos aside and indicated SeLi should eat her cereal before it got soggy. She was not prepared for the instant quickening of her heartbeat as the image of Clay McLeod smiled up at her.

  “I didn’t intend to steal nothin’—really. I just wanted to see if I could still lift a wallet,” SeLi mumbled. “I was PO’d at Buffy Jordan. She was always braggin’ on how good-lookin’ her dad was and how smart her sister was. You said I could have pictures of your folks, but they’re old.“

  Starr hid a smile. “Don’t let them hear you say that.”

  The girl pushed limp flakes around her bowl. “When I saw the pictures, I sorta dreamed up an idea to get back at Buffy. I figured to tell her my folks got divorced, and that Moe belonged to my dad’s new wife—only I didn’t call him Moe.” Her gaze narrowed. “I never dreamed he’d show up at my school. I bet that stupid Buffy would’ve believed me, too.” Her eyes snapped. “I mean, Clay’s got black hair. He could be my dad, don’tcha think?”

  An unreasonable fear gripped Starr’s heart. She fought to keep her features blank. If SeLi was Harrison’s daughter, she might well resemble Clay.

  Carefully Starr scanned the picture, searching for some irrefutable evidence. There was none. SeLi had inherited the fine features and almond-shaped eyes of her mother. Clay McLeod had crow black hair, but the similarity ended there. Sighing audibly, Starr devoured Clay’s features with the hunger born of hopeless infatuation.

  SeLi spoke again.

  “What?” Starr blinked. “Oh, yeah. You have to go get tutored. Uh, SeLi, were you saying Clay doesn’t know you have these pictures?”

  The girl nodded ever so slightly, and Starr’s stomach bottomed out.

  “Then leave them, please. He must have missed them by now. Honey, we’ll clear this matter up as soon as I get back today. I swore to him that nothing was missing from his wallet when I returned it.”

  SeLi had the grace to look ashamed, and for once she didn’t argue.

  Starr laid the photos carefully on the small counter. “I’m going to the pass today. But I’ll try to be back early so we can plan something fun. If Morgan’s mother isn’t feeling well, she can do without two rambunctious kids hanging around all day.” Starr gently tugged on one of SeLi’s braids.

  “There’s cold chicken in the fridge for lunch. Don’t use the stove, okay? If you want hot chocolate, use the microwave. I’ll definitely be back before dark. If we have time, we’ll go look for a small Christmas tree. I brought decorations. We’ll do that together, just the two of us.”

  “I’m glad you picked me to adopt.” SeLi hugged Starr, then dashed off to brush her teeth. Starr was still leaning against the counter when the girl rushed back in, grabbed her workbook, and whirled out on a blast of icy wind. It was the type of wind that made you reach for a warmer jacket.

  Shivering, Starr pulled back the curtain and watched SeLi’s small figure until she disappeared inside the ranch house. Without wasting time, she dressed for the mountain.

  If Starr wished for anything on her way to the barn, it was for better weather. Although perhaps she should just be thankful it wasn’t snowing.

  By the time she’d selected a horse—Redwing wasn’t in her stall today—and ridden toward the bighorn preserve, the wind had mercifully shifted. Now it blew against her back.

  * * *

  CLAY MISSED Starr’s departure because he overslept. He stumbled tiredly into the kitchen, surprised to find his normally late-rising sister-in-law having toast and coffee.

  “Well, you’re looking chipper this morning, Van,” he said as he helped himself to black coffee.

  “It might have something to do with the pep talk you gave me last night, Clay.” She pushed limp curls off her pale forehead and eyed her brother-in-law carefully. “Hank Rogers stopped by about an hour ago. He said to tell you Harrison radioed that he’d be flying in sometime this morning.” Her grip on the cup tightened. “You did say I could make him notice me again if I’d get myself together and get off some of these pills. Did you mean it, Clay?” Wide violet eyes watched him anxiously.

  So big brother was on his way to the ranch. Clay schooled his features to reflect a coolness he didn’t feel. Especially since he was sure Harrison was coming to see Starr.

  He took a long swig of coffee. Rising swiftly, he dumped the remainder in the sink. “Go soak in some perfumed bathwater, Vanessa. And put on something that will remind Harris of red-tile roofs and sultry nights.”

  Clay shrugged into his sheepskin-lined jacket and muttered something about going to see Hank Rogers. He had a hard time meeting the hope that shone in Vanessa’s formerly dull eyes.

  Slamming the door, Clay stalked silently toward the motor home. He hadn’t seen Vanessa express this much interest in her husband or anything else in quite a few months. This time he’d damned well lay it on the line to Starr. She could keep her sexy body and devastating smile out of Harrison’s line of vision this trip, or she would answer to him.

  As he neared the motor home, he saw the front door close. It was likely that Starr had seen him coming and decided to hide out. Angered, he jerked open the door without knocking.

  SeLi jumped. She was still dressed in her jacket and mittens. Catching sight of Clay, she looked edgy. “Jeez, Uncle Clay, you scared the pee-wadin right out of me.”

  “Bite your tongue, young lady.” Clay scowled. “Or I’ll help your mother wash your mouth out with soap.” Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him. “And where is she, by the way?”

  SeLi shrugged. “Gone up the mountain, I guess. I just came back for my math workbook. Why’dya want her?”

  Clay’s heart leapt into his throat. She shouldn’t have gone. Didn’t she look at that sky? He felt the coffeepot, trying to judge how long since she’d left. His roving gaze caught sight of two photographs lying on the counter. Reaching for them, he heard SeLi’s swift intake of breath.

  “Holy shi—” she muttered. Eyes downcast, she bit her lip. When Clay’s censure didn’t come, she raised her lashes and met his frown.

  “Where did these come from, Skeeter?”

  His quiet use of her nickname caught SeLi off guard. With a rush, her story tumbled out. Amid a flurry of tears, she begged his forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to steal from your wallet. I just wanted to shut that awful Buffy up. It would’ve too,” she boasted, “‘cause you’re better-lookin’ than her dad or Heather’s. Younger, too,” she added smugly.

  Clay laughed self-consciously. “You mean it was you who lifted my wallet?” Even now he was shocked. “I’m afraid I blamed Starr,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Starr?” the child hooted. “She wouldn’t know how. She’s so honest she squeaks. ‘Sides, pickin’ pockets is an art.“

  “Not one Starr lets you practice, I hope.”

  “Heck, no! She’s doin’ her best to reform me.”

  It was stated with such seriousness that Clay chuckled.

  “It’s real hard breakin’ old habits.” SeLi’s piquant features suddenly tightened. “You won’t tell Wicked Wanda, will you Uncle Clay? She’d zap me outa Starr’s house quicker’n you could say Jack Robinson. Least that’s what mom says. I’m sorry I snatched your wallet. I’m tryin’ to be
good.”

  The girl sounded so forlorn that Clay dropped to one knee and took her in his arms, cradling her against his rough jacket. “Believe me, SeLi, I’d never do anything to hurt you or Starr.” His voice was thick with emotion.

  SeLi threw her arms around Clay’s neck and grinned at her distorted image in the mirrored tile that bordered a row of cupboards. “So you like her?” she asked coyly.

  Clay might have confided his feelings for Starr if the sound of an aircraft hadn’t cut his remarks short.

  “Run on back to the house,” he said. “The tutor will be wondering what happened to you. I have other fish to fry, short stuff.” Gently he turned her toward the door. “Here, keep these if you like. I have more.”

  “Gee, thanks! That’s great.” Looking relieved, SeLi grabbed her workbook and the pictures and skipped off toward the ranch.

  Overhead a small plane had begun its descent. Clay shut the door and looked up, shading his eyes. Mouth set in a grim line, he watched the single-engine plane touch down smoothly and come to a stop beside his own twin-engine Comanche.

  Almost welcoming the sting of wind, Clay strode to the edge of the clearing. He did his best to quash a slow-burning anger as the tall, distinguished form of his brother dropped gracefully to the ground.

  Grudgingly Clay admitted that Harrison was a handsome cuss. Over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, he had the type of solid confidence women liked. And the touch of silver at his temples didn’t hurt, either. Or their father’s blue eyes, which were not only direct but passionate.

  Harrison McLeod wore a suit and tie like he was born to it, yet still managed a casual, down-home air. All those things, plus a youthful charm, made him the perfect political figure. On the surface, anyway....

  Clay watched his brother’s approach through eyes narrowed against the wind. Instead of meeting Harrison’s outstretched hand with his own, Clay weighed the evidence, considered his action and balanced the consequences, then doubled a fist and wiped the welcoming smile from Harrison’s face with a jarring right jab.

  His brother staggered and nearly fell. A leather briefcase slid from his slack left hand. The hand he’d extended toward Clay quickly cupped his rapidly swelling jaw.