The Nights Before Christmas

by Sharpe, Isabel

  “Okay.” She spoke warily, eyes cautious.

  “Who did give you that underwear?” He watched her carefully, hating the jealous fear that had been eating at him since she’d told him about the mix-up, praying she’d burst out laughing and name one of the female employees at Connoisseur.

  Her expression did change but not into laughter. “Uh…a guy who lives across the hall from me. It was unexpected, to say the least.”

  He was gripping her too tightly. He forced his hold looser and made sure his next question came out playfully. “So you planning to model it for him, too?”

  “No. God, no.” She was genuinely horrified, and he had the grace to feel sheepish. He should have known better. The green-eyed monster didn’t generally twist his brain this badly.

  Did he say he was in trouble? Serious trouble.

  “Okay.” He kept his tone light. “Thank you for answering. I know I’m leaving soon and I have no right to—”

  “Quinn, believe me.” Her eyes were so earnest he had no choice but to believe her, no matter what came out of her mouth. “I’ll never wear that underwear again. I couldn’t. Not for anyone but you.”

  And if he thought he was in serious trouble before, he’d now proceeded to crisis. Emotion barreled up his chest. He doubted he could speak, so he kissed her instead, trying to keep calm so he wouldn’t scare her.

  He wanted to ask more questions, demand guarantees he didn’t deserve. Why did this guy think underwear was an appropriate gift? How did she feel about him? If she’d known the lace was from him, would she have gone to his house last night instead? Was she planning to see him after Quinn left?

  But where Cathy was concerned, he had no rights after tomorrow. What’s more, today was still before them, sunny and mild, and he had the choice either to let questions and jealousy continue to feast on his mood and his outlook or to take the look in her eyes right now as his answer and drop it.

  He took her hand and they left the sumptuous hotel for the holiday bustle of Fifth Avenue

  , turning south to join last-minute shoppers and tourists crowding the sidewalks. Fate had given him only a short time with Cathy, so he’d make the most of it. And if this extra day together made leaving her tomorrow and going to England harder than it would have been if they’d left well enough alone in the wee hours of the morning, so be it. He didn’t see any point spending the rest of his short time in Manhattan wishing she were with him.

  They passed Gucci, Fortunoff, Brooks Brothers, Ferragamo….

  “Look.” He lifted his chin toward a tiny blue-haired woman swathed in a thick brown fur coat toting several shopping bags toward a waiting limo. “Bet she has a different rock for each finger.”

  Cathy giggled. “And gloves made to accommodate them.”

  “Penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park…”

  “With a special refrigerator for champagne and caviar.”

  “Bingo. Your turn.” He bumped her gently with his shoulder, tickled at how immediately she’d understood the game. “Another Manhattan snapshot.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She sent him a look of smiling bemusement and started scanning the crowd. “There. There’s one.”

  She’d chosen a tall arrogant-looking young man with perfect dark hair, wearing a long wool coat, talking on his cell and clutching a Starbucks cup in his other hand, from which dangled a Brooks Brothers bag. “He makes six figures and hosts perfect parties that his perfect wife does all the work for.”

  “And to thank her for her perfection, he cheats on her.”

  “With their nanny.” She eyed the man warily as he brushed past, giving a mock shudder. “Your turn again.”

  He gestured to a middle-aged woman in a faded red jacket gazing wistfully into the window of Versace. “Works hard but will never get ahead.”

  “Tried to be an actress, now works as administrative assistant to the VP of a struggling Web design company.”

  “Who harasses her daily.”

  She nodded toward a teenage girl coming out of the same store, loaded with bags, yapping on her cell in a shrill voice about giving “that jerk Steven” what he had coming to him. “Doesn’t work hard but will always stay ahead.”

  “Will marry Steven in spite of hating him, have his babies, then leave him.”

  “For another woman.”

  He laughed and pulled at her hand so she bumped against him. “You’re good.”

  “I try.”

  They crossed Fifty-second Street

  , where the Cartier building was, as usual, decked out for the holidays in a huge red ribbon and sparkling light bow, with two tiaras of lights over each entrance. He turned to grin mischievously at Cathy, not able to remember when he’d enjoyed someone’s company more. “I’d like to compose a picture of you wearing only diamond jewelry and a Santa hat, planted in the middle of that bow.”

  She shivered. “Sounds chilly.”

  “No, no. Very hot.” He stared at the building, imagining her there naked, wishing he’d brought his camera, wishing he had the time to come back and get the background shot. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at Cartier the same way.”

  She put gentle pressure on his fingers. “Me neither.”

  Her wistful tone squeezed his heart much harder than she’d squeezed his hand. He had a flash of the long year ahead in London, the city he loved so much, which wouldn’t have memories of Cathy to color its streets.

  They stopped at the soaring Gothic spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, then backed toward the curb to avoid being mown down by passersby.

  He turned with a question, then paused. The breeze was lifting her hair and dropping the heavy strands back down in place; her eyes were bright, cheeks and nose tip pink. He studied her carefully so he could call her back to his memory whenever he wanted, kicking himself again for not bringing a camera.

  “Yes?”

  Obviously he’d been staring too long. “When did you come back from the Midwest?”

  “Five years ago.”

  “Ah, so you missed the scandal.”

  “What scandal?”

  “In 2002, a local radio shock jock encouraged New Yorkers to have sex in public places around the city. He broadcast a program here from St. Patrick’s, where he claimed to be watching two people going at it in the vestibule.”

  She screwed up her face in disgust. “That is really offensive.”

  “What is, sex in public?”

  “In a church!” She waved her hand at St. Patrick’s.

  “Agreed.” His brain immediately came up with a picture of he and Cathy going at it somewhere less sacrilegious. Like in Central Park at dusk. Or on a deserted subway car. Or…

  Why torture himself? They’d have no time to try.

  “Maybe somewhere else it would be fun….” Her brown eyes shot him a teasing look.

  He pulled her forward until they joined from the waist down and kissed her, his body responding instantly to the eagerness of her mouth. “You read my mind.”

  “If it was warmer out…”

  Her face fell, and he knew what she was thinking because he was thinking the same. When it got warmer out, they wouldn’t be together.

  He kissed her again and pulled her around to keep walking until they joined the crowds lingering outside Saks Fifth Avenue’s Christmas windows, this year showing characters from a children’s book Quinn wasn’t familiar with. Tiny black mice scampered over a huge green dragon out of whose nose gold and red streamers flickered to represent flame. His paws lifted one by one in a vain attempt to brush off the mice, who avoided his every move.

  Cathy laughed and leaned in for a better look. “These are great. I don’t know the story, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Been a while since I read a kids’ book. Even my nieces and nephews are too old for this level now.”

  “How much older are your brothers?”

  “Fifteen and eighteen years. I was a surprise.”

  “So you essentially grew up an
only child.”

  “Yeah. With three fathers.” The bitterness in his voice surprised him. He’d meant to sound amused. “You have one brother?”

  “Brad. Older by three years. Horrible tease. He still calls me the Catheter. But we’re good friends now. He married and moved to Arizona, so I don’t see him as often as I’d like. He’ll be home for Christmas, though.”

  “You’re close to your family.” He didn’t need to make it a question.

  “Yes. I moved back east to be nearer. I take it you’re not close to yours.” She turned to him with sympathy. “I’m sorry. It must leave a hole in your life.”

  “No, not really.” His response was automatic, but her words stayed with him as they came to another window, in which a little boy hugged an animal that looked like a friendly, furry dog-eagle hybrid. A hole in his life? He had a great job, good friends he spent time with when he was in town, some of whom he’d known since he was a boy. Unlucky in love so far, but that could change at any second. Maybe it was already changing.

  If only…

  “Look at that.” She was laughing at the pink tongue that incongruously emerged from the eagle’s beak, lapping at the boy’s face, which turned cheerfully side to side in a vain effort to avoid the bath. “I’ll have to find this book. Looks like one I would have loved as a kid.”

  He let go of her hand and put his arm around her waist, drawing her close so they walked as a unit, and to hell with people around them who got pushed aside. One second she was talking about sex in public, the next she was enthralled with a children’s story. The short time he had to explore her seemed only crueler as the minutes ticked by. As did the idea that Underwear Boy would have all the leisure in the world as soon as Quinn was out of the picture.

  He couldn’t bear to think about it.

  They reached the last window, and crossed Forty-ninth Street

  to wander around Rockefeller Center, admiring the huge Christmas tree, watching the skaters on the below-street-level rink, stopping for a very late lunch/very early dinner at the Rock Center Café, where even at that odd hour they had to wait at the bar for a table. He didn’t care. As long as he was with Cathy, he’d happily sit at the bottom of a sewage tank.

  The longer he spent with her, the more time he wanted. Three days from now he’d be starting his last assignment for Connoisseur, then settling in to register at Sotheby’s, setting up his own studio in the city….

  A strong sense of suffocation nearly took away his breath.

  What the hell? He forced himself calm, pretending to search the room for the waiter to pay their bill.

  That feeling had hit him once before, suddenly like this, and it had changed his life.

  He’d done some impetuous things in his time—okay, quite a few as a teenager and college student, though he’d stayed out of jail. Then he’d settled down to take life seriously, much to the combined delight and relief of his parents and older brothers.

  Life had gone smoothly until he’d woken up one morning, the day before his second year of medical school, with this same sense of panic and impending suffocation at the thought of the coming year.

  He hadn’t thought twice. He’d walked to the dean’s office and given notice that he was dropping out. After that he’d pursued photography—to his parents’ unrelenting dismay, even though he’d made nothing but a success of it so far. They had their own definition of success, about as narrow as their views on everything else.

  That decision to leave had been made at the spur of the moment, on no more than a feeling—granted, a strong one. And that decision had turned out to be absolutely the right one. Had he simply gotten lucky? Or did he have a good instinct that he needed to trust when it spoke to him?

  He didn’t know. But he’d have to pay attention and give it some serious thought. Because right now his instinct was telling him Cathy was The One and he’d be a fool to risk leaving her.

  Chapter 6

  Cathy stepped into Quinn’s living room—after another narrow escape from Mrs. Hoffman—a little more than twelve hours after she’d left, though it felt like days longer than that. Suitcases stood next to the door and she looked away determinedly. They still had until tomorrow afternoon; she wasn’t going to allow herself to get morbid already. Their day together so far had been perfect and the night would be, too. She’d deal with goodbye when it was time.

  Then go home feeling like death would be a fun vacation.

  “Can I get you a nightcap?”

  “No, thanks.” Wine was still singing through her veins from dinner. “I’m fine as is.”

  “Okay.” He crossed to a cabinet next to where he’d gotten the brandy the night before, opened a door and revealed a fancy-looking sound system. He pushed buttons, adjusted knobs, and she waited, curious what he’d choose.

  A slow swing number played by full orchestra filled the room with a dreamy old-fashioned sound, which could not have been more perfect.

  “Dance with me?” He held out his arms and she gave a laugh of pure delight. A man who danced! If he turned out to be any more wonderful, she’d have to start checking for mechanical parts.

  “Love to.” She took his hand and put hers on his shoulder, moved close and found—of course—that he was a really good dancer. “Are you bad at anything?”

  “Sure.” He rested his chin against her temple. “Bowling, football, baking, jigsaw puzzles…and saying goodbye.”

  “I’m…” her voice broke “…about to get really bad at that, too.”

  “In that case…” He kissed her forehead and pulled her closer. “We’ll pretend we have forever.”

  “Good plan.” She slid her arms all the way around his shoulders, laid her head in the curve of his neck, closed her eyes and swayed to the music, humming along with the familiar parts, drinking in the pleasure of his body being so close, his arms strong and secure around her.

  The song flowed on and ended with a slow improvised flourish; the last chord held, died away. Cathy lifted her head and found Quinn looking down at her with an expression of such tenderness her heart bounded, and that piercing, sweet emotion swelled in her again.

  I love you. She knew it wasn’t true—it couldn’t be yet, not real love—but she felt the power of it so fiercely she nearly said the words out loud, which would ruin everything.

  “Ekatarina…”

  Her heart sped again and launched her into fantasy. He was going to say he loved her, too. Or he was going to say he’d stay in New York. Or he was going to invite her to—

  The next song came on abruptly, a jazzy, crashing version of “Take The A Train” that jolted them both. Quinn took a step back and held out his hand.

  Whew. Saved by the New York City transit system.

  A minute later, thankfully, she’d regained emotional balance and was successfully having the time of her life all over again. The man could even Jitterbug. Who knew those painful dance lessons her mother had made her take would actually be useful one day? Cathy would have to tell Mom, to give her the pleasure of a teasing I-told-you-so.

  Tomorrow at this time she’d be on her way to see her family. For the first time, packing for the familiar trip at Christmas would be bittersweet instead of joyful.

  Quinn spun her out, then back, his dark blue eyes flashing, his face slightly flushed, leading her so expertly through the steps that her body seemed to know what he wanted before he even asked for it. The way she responded to him in bed. And when they played silly games or talked together. This was her fantasy man? Being with him felt more real to her than any of her time with Jake.

  The song ended. They broke apart, breathing hard, waiting for the next one, smiling expectantly. A new piece started, a raucous, brassy number she didn’t recognize, suitable for a strutting chorus line…or a striptease.

  Hmm…

  She made her decision instantly. Her attempt the previous night might have been laughable, but everything had changed between them now. She was here legitimately because he wan
ted her to be. She was here without fear.

  And he was going to get it.

  She planted her hand in the center of his chest and pushed, walking him backward toward the couch in time with the music, gazing wickedly from under her lashes. He went willingly, one eyebrow arched, until the couch hit the back of his knees and he sat abruptly.

  Cathy—no, Catriona, Catlaina, Ekatarina—sauntered to the opposite side of the room, turned around so her back was to him and rotated her hips slowly, hands raised, feeling her cheeks flush. But not with embarrassment this time.

  She worked her tight pale yellow sweater up slowly, then off, not caring that her bra wasn’t red or black, wildly revealing or cleavage-enhancing, but plain ivory. The black slit skirt came down, too, inch by gradual inch, her panties a matching ivory with only a touch of lace at the sides.

  The coy glance over her shoulder was purely for effect. She wasn’t even worried he’d think she was ridiculous. Because if he did, he’d just laugh and scoop her up and kiss her and they’d make love all night anyway.

  But, um, judging by the look of blue-eyed rapture on his face, he didn’t find her ridiculous.

  The brass section blared. She turned to face him, confidence rising even higher, and tossed her hips to one side, arms over her head, then slid her hands down her stomach and back up to unhook her bra and slide it off her shoulders.

  He closed his eyes briefly, moved his hips up, pants straining to cope with his arousal.

  Oh, baby. She was hot. She was fabulous. She was on top of the world, and Quinn had put her there.

  Arms open wide, she did a slow shimmy toward him, her nipples hardening even in the warmth of the room. A foot away she stopped and, without questioning her actions or her daring, she slid her hands slowly down into her panties.

  Even with the music thundering, she heard him groan. He unfastened his pants, lowered his briefs and…mmm, yes. He was ready, and the sight of him so hard increased her own excitement. She continued to touch herself, drawing a hand up now and then to caress her breast or circle its tip with her thumb.