Father Christmas

by Judith Arnold

  She rose to her feet, swaying slightly, and hurled two more fistfuls of foam at him. This time, a plush foam ball smacked him in the chin.

  Her memory flashed on a picture of the way he’d nailed the pick-pocket on Dudley Avenue. She recalled his smooth, swift lunge, so fast the punk scarcely knew what was happening to him. And then she was the target of John Russo’s speed and grace as he gathered up handfuls of foam-rubber and strafed her with them, right hand and left and right again, both equally accurate and all of his foam missiles hitting her. The laughter she’d been hoping for burst out of him, dark and devilish, as he pelted her with a barrage of foam.

  Giggling, she staggered backward, lost her footing and fell. He descended to his knees, sweeping armfuls of foam off the floor of the pit and attempting to bury her with them.

  She let out a tiny shriek, not loud enough to wake Michael, and scrambled away. He grabbed her ankle and dragged her back toward him, through the lush carpet of foam. She bubbled with laughter, squirming and resisting, then twisting onto her side and hurling chunks of foam at him. Whatever she tossed at him he swatted away or tossed right back.

  He was smiling. Really smiling. Smiling so broadly his eyes shimmered with fire and his cheeks creased with dimples, and all the pain and worry of his burdens seemed to have melted from him. Laughter rose from his throat, low and delicious. Flecks of foam rubber lodged in his hair.

  She reared back to throw another handful of foam at him, but he caught her wrist in his hand and blocked her throw. She couldn’t breathe, she was laughing so hard...or maybe what made her breathless was the firm clasp of his fingers around her arm, the nearness of him as he pressed her back down into the resilient floor of the pit.

  He didn’t let go of her wrist. He just hovered above her, his eyes blinding her with their dark beauty, his smile changing, becoming less bright, more thoughtful.

  She was still panting. So was he. The air seemed electric between them, and she knew something dangerous would happen if she didn’t prevent it. She was going to have to slide her wrist from his grip and sit up, and congratulate him on having cut loose for a few minutes. She was going to have to take control.

  But this was all about ceding control, wasn’t it? It was all about tossing off one’s responsibility for a few precious minutes.

  And he was still above her, his face so close to hers.

  She reached up and plucked a shred of foam from a silky lock of hair above his brow. He seemed to hold his breath, and his smile vanished. Enough, she warned herself—she’d taken enough of a chance, touching his hair, letting him touch her arm, lying on her back practically beneath him as he leaned over her. She couldn’t let this continue.

  Yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. There was another bit of foam snagged in his hair just above his ear, and when she reached for it her fingertips brushed against his earlobe. She didn’t exactly see him flinch, but she felt it. She sensed it in his nearly inaudible sigh, in the altered angle of his jaw, the motion of his fingers against the skin of her inner wrist. Not a trace of his smile remained.

  Molly wasn’t smiling, either. Somehow, this had become deadly serious.

  Bowing, he touched his mouth to hers.

  She should have known this was coming. She should have known as soon as she’d invited him into the pit, as soon as she’d thrown the first bits of foam at him, as soon as she’d tried to crawl away and he’d hauled her back. She should have known.

  She had known, and she could have brought the game to a halt. But she’d wanted his kiss too much.

  His lips covered hers, cautious and relentless all at once. He exercised restraint, yet his hunger seared her. His fingers moved against the bare skin of her arm and then glided down, interlacing with her fingers. The pressure of his palm against hers unleashed a rush of heat through her.

  His palm. His lips and his palm. That was enough to make her crazy with longing.

  Her mind told her this was a kiss and nothing more. But her heart told her it was infinitely more. It was John Russo, a man who had been hurt but who refused to use his hurt as an excuse to behave badly. A man she hadn’t stopped thinking of since the first time she’d seen him, armed and dangerous and talking about his son as if he wasn’t even aware of how armed and dangerous he was. A man whose kiss could make her want to laugh and weep. He was a man who laughed too rarely—and probably never wept at all.

  Need, hot and throbbing, surged through her as he moved his lips on hers, light yet demanding, devouring with gentle nips. She longed for him to claim her mouth, to open her and take her. She yearned for him to sink down onto her, settling between her legs so she could feel the full potency of him. She ached for him in a way she’d never known before, heedless of all the many messy complications that could arise if she didn’t regain her control very soon.

  Not too soon, though, she prayed, and her prayer was answered when he lowered himself, arranging his body over hers, and skimmed his tongue along the edge of her teeth. She sighed, alarmed at how grateful she was, and opened her mouth.

  He groaned. It was a quiet, feral sound, born somewhere deep in his soul. She wondered whether he considered kissing her an irresponsible act—and if he did, whether he cared. Maybe kissing her was just as meaningful—or meaningless—to him as jumping in the foam pit had been. For all she knew, he might think of this as just one more way to abandon responsibility.

  Even that notion didn’t make her want to stop. Not when his weight was warm upon her, his kiss deepening, his tongue tangled in erotic combat with hers. Not when he tightened his grip on her hand and plunged his other hand into her hair, curling his fingers to hold her head steady so he could kiss her more thoroughly. Not when he pressed between her thighs and groaned again, his heat hard against hers.

  He wanted her, maybe as much as she wanted him. As he withdrew and then thrust his tongue again, as he rocked her body with his, as he slid his chest against her until the tips of her breasts grew almost painfully tight, she wondered if he was as lost as she was. This was a man who lived his life within narrow boundaries, who’d once made a mistake with a woman and was trying, all these years later, to make up for that one mistake. How much could he really let go?

  Not as much as she could.

  She had been imagining this moment, dreaming about it, for too many days, too many nights. Now that the reality of it arrived, her heart was bounding ahead, striving toward the next moment. One kiss, and she was wishing for things that couldn’t be, that shouldn’t be.

  He was a cop, the father of a student. He was a man under enormous pressure, a man who wouldn’t know how to forgive himself for doing the wrong thing.

  She tried to say his name, but her voice emerged in a tremulous moan. He freed her lips, breaking the kiss—but then denied her the ability to speak by brushing his mouth against the curve at the base of her throat. All she could do was moan again.

  He lifted his head. She opened her eyes and they slowly came into focus on him. Damn, but he was beautiful to look at. Even more beautiful now, when he was aroused.

  “John?” She could barely speak. Her voice was ragged, her breath shallow. Her neck tingled where his lips had branded it.

  He flexed his fingers against hers, seductively. She had never before considered the flesh between her fingers an erogenous zone, but when he slid his fingers against that flesh, it made her think of another part of him sliding against another part of her, with warmth and strength and possessive energy. A warm shudder rippled down through her, making her want to arch against him.

  It took all her willpower to hold herself still. “We really shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured, sounding strange to herself, her voice faint, lacking conviction.

  He released her hand and propped himself up on his arms. She peered up into his shadowed face. The smile that had illuminated his eyes was gone, replaced by layers of caution. He held her gaze for a moment, then averted his eyes and pushed himself off her, leaning back on his haunches.
“I’m sorry,” he said, addressing the rope railing of the foam pit.

  “No.” It didn’t matter that kissing her student’s father was wrong. She didn’t want him to be sorry about it. She certainly wasn’t sorry.

  He shoved himself to his feet. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended his hands to her to help her up. She sat without his assistance, then took his proffered hand and let him haul her to her feet. If she felt wobbly this time, it had nothing to do with the spongy foam beneath her feet.

  He released her as soon as she had her balance, and ran his hand across his face as if to rub away the effects of the kiss. He continued to avoid her gaze, glancing over at his slumbering son and then back at the pit, at the long indentation where their bodies had rearranged the loose bits of foam. “Don’t take it out on Mike, okay?” he said.

  “Take what out on him?” The fact that I’m suffering from incurable lust for you? The fact that I regret having stopped you, and I’m as frustrated as hell, and you can’t even bear to look me in the eye?

  He overcame his aversion to her, although it appeared to cost him. Sliding his hand under her chin, he angled her face until her eyes met his, and stared at her, as if willing her to understand so he wouldn’t have to spell anything out. Her will was as stubborn as his, though. She refused to nod. If he had something to say, he’d have to say it.

  He did. “I was out of line.”

  “Out of line? What is this, an etiquette class?” She laughed, more from anxiety than because she actually thought John’s statement was funny.

  “No, Molly. Not etiquette.” At least he had the courage to continue staring into her eyes, allowing her to see him. She couldn’t read much in his face beside discomfort and regret, but that was enough.

  Sighing, she ordered herself to gather what little poise she had. He felt bad about what had just happened. He felt guilty. He had cut loose and let go and been irresponsible, and he wasn’t about to forgive himself or let her grant him absolution. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, John. The only way you could have been out of line would be if...” she drifted off, aware of what she was on the verge of confessing.

  “If what?”

  She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. She was going to prove to him that losing control wasn’t a sin. “If I said no. Which I didn’t.”

  A hint of the light she’d seen in his eyes returned, and he lifted his hand again, this time to cup her cheek. As soon as she felt his palm against her skin he dropped his hand, then turned away, swinging one leg and then the other over the rope wall of the foam pit. He held the roped low for Molly to climb out, and offered his hand. She refused to take it, climbing out without losing her balance.

  As soon as they were both out of the pit, he crossed to his boots and laced them on. He didn’t speak, and she wasn’t surprised. What else could he say? He wanted her, and he didn’t want to want her. And if his current mood remained, if he ever wanted her again he would do nothing about it.

  For the sake of his son? she wondered. Or for his own sake?

  Still without speaking, he walked over to the corner where he’d laid Michael, hunkered down, and nudged the boy’s shoulder. Michael made a whimpering sound and rolled over. “Time to go, Mike,” he murmured.

  “Okay,” Michael said sleepily.

  John waited until Michael was sitting, then straightened up. “Do you want some help with the food?” he asked, motioning with his head toward their forgotten picnic.

  No, Molly didn’t want any help with the food. The only help she wanted was in breaking down the wall John seemed so determined to keep in place around him. Perhaps she’d slipped through a crevice in it for a brief interlude, but she had no doubt that the minute he left the Children’s Garden he would be hard at work plastering that crack, making it waterproof and rock-tough, like himself.

  For those few precious moments in the pit, she actually might have reached him. But now he was gone again, withdrawing, taking his child and pulling back. Being responsible.

  Maybe she ought to be grateful. But she wasn’t.

  Chapter Eight

  “HIS LAWYER CALLED ME AGAIN,” Abigail’s mother was yammering at Molly. “I don’t even know where he is. The lawyer won’t tell me. I told his lawyer to call my lawyer, but he never listens. The whole thing is making me nuts.”

  Molly hoped she looked as interested as she ought to be. What Elsie Pelham was saying was important. Molly needed to know about the custody arrangements of her school’s pupils—and she needed to know the home environments her students were coming from. But two days after John had kissed her, she was still dazed and distracted, struggling to keep her focus on the present. Her memory of those few passionate moments in the foam pit kept dimming her mind like a dense winter fog.

  She’d been all but useless on Sunday, when she and Allison Winslow had driven down to Stamford to look at bridal gowns and dresses for the attendants. Allison had oohed and ahhed over sophisticated white-silk sheaths and fairy-tale confections of satin and lace, and like a dolt Molly had just nodded and mumbled, “That one’s nice. So’s that one. I like that one fine.” She just couldn’t get excited about bridal dresses when she was suffering from emotional arrhythmia, her heartbeat becoming syncopated whenever she thought about John—which was most of the time.

  “The only reason his lawyer is calling me instead of my lawyer is to frighten me,” Elsie Pelham prattled. “It’s a kind of harassment.”

  “I understand that it upsets you,” Molly interjected. “I hope you’re not projecting your concerns onto Abigail.”

  “She doesn’t even ask about her father. But it’s hard, you know? Every time the phone rings, my blood-pressure rises through the roof. I’m really trying not to drag her into it, but it’s hard.”

  “We’ll do whatever we can to give her a stable environment here,” Molly assured her. “You ought to talk to your lawyer. As you say, this other attorney is harassing you. Maybe there’s some legal way you can make him stop.”

  “I mean, because I don’t even know where my ex is. The court gave me custody, and if that jerk cared he could’ve stuck around in town so he could see Abbie on the weekends. Instead he just took off, and now his lawyer is in my face.”

  Molly smiled gently. “I can’t give you legal advice, Elsie. All I can give you is child-care advice. And you know what I’ll tell you there—you’ve got to make Abbie feel secure and loved, and try to keep her as far as possible from the strife between you and your former husband.”

  “I know, I know.” Elsie Pelham sighed. “Thanks. I’ll give my lawyer a call. Even though the minute he picks up his phone the meter starts running. That’s the real reason they’re doing this, you know—to cost me money. My ex is exacting revenge for the settlement. He resents every penny I got—and believe me, there weren’t too many pennies in that settlement. And now it’s all going to my lawyer.”

  Molly nodded again. She truly felt bad for what Elsie was going through. Some lawyers were in it for nothing but the money. And the people who wound up suffering the most in ugly divorces like this were the children. “I’ll tell Shannon to pay extra close attention to Abbie,” she promised. “If we see any signs of stress, we’ll let you know.”

  “She’s my baby,” Elsie said, buttoning her wool coat and thrusting her hands into her gloves. “I want her to have a good Christmas.”

  “Of course.” Still nodding, Molly shaped a compassionate smile for Elsie and waved her out the front door. She couldn’t solve the woman’s problems for her, but she could pledge that as long as Abigail Pelham was at the Children’s Garden she would be all right.

  It was a pledge she honored with all the children at the school, no matter who they were or where they came from or what was going on in their parents’ lives. That included Michael Russo and whatever was going on in his father’s life.

  And there she was, thinking about John again.

  The door swung open, letting in a gust of chilly air. Like the em
bodiment of her thoughts, Michael skipped past her desk and into the front hall, singing “The Wheels on the Bus” but garbling the words. She grinned at the way he mangled the verse about the wipers—he called them “wet-wipes”—and turned expectantly toward the door, both hoping and fearing that John would enter.

  Her hopes and fears were realized. John stepped across the threshold, his hair windblown, his bomber jacket zipped against the cold, his hands in his pockets and his gaze resolutely on his son, as if he didn’t want to look at Molly.

  “Hello,” she said. He might wish to avoid looking at her, but she wasn’t going to be a coward about it. He was here, and the least he could do was acknowledge her existence.

  He turned toward her reluctantly. The dark beauty of his eyes stunned her. His expression conveyed so much—only she couldn’t interpret it. She knew there was a message in his eyes, in the enigmatic curve of his lips, the rugged angle of his chin. If only he was as eloquent with his words as he was with his gaze.

  “Hi,” he said.

  Now what? If Saturday’s kiss hadn’t happened, Molly could have asked him how Michael’s weekend was. But Saturday’s kiss had happened, and the daily morning drop-off ritual was no longer a simple thing.

  As difficult as John was to read, she got the impression that he was uncomfortable, regretting the time he’d spent with her on Saturday, regretting the kiss. He probably would prefer to pretend it never happened. But ignoring the truth wasn’t one of Molly’s talents.

  “How are you?” she asked cautiously.

  He studied her at her desk, his eyes narrowing on her upturned face. His smile grew more mysterious, but it didn’t disappear. “Loaded question,” he said, then glanced down the hall at Michael. “Are you having trouble with your boots, Mike?” he asked.

  “No, I can do it,” Michael shouted back. Molly heard the thud of a boot hitting the carpeted floor, followed by Michael’s cheerful, off-key warble: “The wet-wipe on the bus go swish, swish, swish!”