Cold Feet at Christmas

by Debbie Johnson

  “Grilled cheese! That’s so cute!” she said, stifling a laugh as he stared at her. “You mean cheese on toast, Rob. Come on, get it right. You may be an artist, but that’s no excuse for not learning the native tongue.”

  “Artist?” he said, blankly. That was quite a gear shift, and he had no idea what she was talking about. “Who said I was an artist?” he asked, confused, wine glass halfway to his lips. Did he have paint on his sweater, he wondered? Smell of turps? Nothing could be farther from the truth – he was the kind of kid who was still drawing stick figures at 12.

  “Erm, nobody did, now you mention it,” she said, “that was just my wild brain conjuring things up, I suppose – and once I’d thought it, it became true in my own mind, you know?”

  She’d tied her hair back with a piece of tinsel she’d lifted from the pine tree, and it was draping metallic red glitter over her shoulders, merging with the blonde of her messy plait. Very festive, he thought. Morag decorated the tree for him every year, even though he’d told her he didn’t care. It was nice that someone was finally appreciating her efforts.

  “I think,” she continued, narrowing her amber eyes as she tried to reconstruct her thought processes, “it was because I couldn’t imagine why else somebody would be holed up here on their own over Christmas, unless they were, I don’t know, seeking inspiration or communing with the spirit world. Maybe an artist, or priest on some kind of retreat. Clearly not in your case – at least I hope not, bearing in mind our adventure on the sofa earlier…so I decided artist. I was wrong, obviously. So what do you do – and why are you here? You don’t have the excuse of it being an accident like I do.”

  “I’m a white slaver,” he answered, his teeth shining savagely in the flickering light cast by the fire. For a second she could believe that, with his olive skin and dark eyes. And he’d look amazing in a pirate costume.

  “I wait here for passing virgins,” he said, “then I sell them on for unimaginable profit.”

  “Oh dear. Sorry to let you down on the virgin front. You must have thought your luck was in when a woman in a white dress turned up on your doorstep?” she replied, shaking off the image of Rob and his swinging cutlass. Leah had been nipping at the wine all the time she cooked, and accidentally seemed to have polished off most of a bottle of red on her own. Oops, she thought. This was turning out to be an unexpectedly boozy Christmas Day after all.

  “Nah, it happens all the time. I’m forever fighting women off,” he said. “Gets quite exhausting after a while.”

  That, thought Leah, she could definitely believe. This was not a man who would ever go short of offers. From man, woman or beast. He was impossibly good-looking. Italian family, she’d managed to learn. Lived in Chicago. White slaver. That was the sum total of her knowledge about him. Assuming you didn’t include the way his lips tasted or having a fair estimate of his penis size, that is.

  “No. Really. Go on. Tell me something about yourself. I mean, I’ve already poured my heart out to you, and you’ve seen me starkers. It’s only fair.”

  He had seen her ‘starkers’, he acknowledged. At least when he hadn’t been squinting to try and avoid it. And now, thanks to that casual comment, he was imagining her starkers again, wearing just the tinsel in her hair.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, shaking away the image, “but I’m not an artist. Or even a white slaver. I’m just a businessman. Family firm. Corporate suits. Meetings all day. Boring to the max.”

  “I bet it’s not boring at all. I can’t imagine you doing something boring,” she said. “I bet you buy and sell something really interesting, like, reindeers. Right?”

  “You guessed it,” he said, smiling. “I’m a reindeer wholesaler. And by this time of year, I’ve had enough, so I run away to the wilds of Scotland to escape it all. And do a bit of stock-taking while I’m here.”

  Something about the way he said it rang true to Leah. Not the reindeer bit, obviously, she thought, but the escape. The running away. Even the stock-taking. She’d known this man for less than 48 hours and she already realised he was strong; dependable; in charge. Of himself and probably of others. At certain moments already, of her and her newly emerging nymphomaniac. But despite all of that, he also needed to escape. To hide.

  What could be bad enough to make a man like this feel the need to hide? Would she ever find out? Too serious, she thought, reaching for yet more wine. Way too serious, and none of her business. They’d been thrown together by a set of freaky circumstances and he’d been kind enough to let her stay, and even to share some saliva with her. She should repay him by keeping her nose – and all of her other body parts – out of his business.

  “Well, I understand that,” she replied. “I’m a fugitive myself. I ran away into the wilds of Scotland too, away from my own wedding, shortly after seeing Doug disappear up Becky’s frock. Okay, I was aiming for London and I ended up—”

  “Here, with me. Which is no sane person’s idea of an escape,” he said, his tone suddenly quiet and serious, his face cast down in the shimmering firelight. There was a sadness in this man, making guest appearances when Leah least expected it. She felt her own pain well up in response; scrunched up her eyes so she wouldn’t cry. What a pair of losers.

  It was Christmas, she told herself. And nobody should be allowed to be sad at Christmas - no matter how good the reasons. It is, after all, the season to be jolly.

  “Yep. I ended up here, with you, Mr Cavelli. Where I’ve had to endure sexual harassment, and been forced into becoming your chief cook and bottle washer. Talking of which, are you ready for your next course, sir?”

  “Yes. Into the kitchen, woman,” he said, noticing the way she’d picked up on his mood, and tried to deflect it. Moving his mental course…what? His usual default setting of morose solitude? Around this time of year it seemed to be the only mood he was capable of. God, he was becoming a pain in the ass, he decided. He was even sick of himself.

  Yet with Leah around, he felt different. The anxiety felt diffused by the easy positivity and flirty charm that seemed to be her default setting. He knew she must be in pain; knew she must be grieving for her lost future, no matter how much she mocked herself and her circumstances. Nobody could walk away from that kind of experience unharmed. And this Doug guy must be a total idiot. Who could have a woman like Leah waiting for him and still want more?

  Not love…but chemistry. Burning, sparkling, blazing chemistry that threatened to set them both on fire. She was way too vulnerable for that right now, even if she didn’t think she was. And as for him - he always would be too vulnerable. After Meredith, there was nothing left to give. His body, yes. But more? The sort of more a woman like Leah deserved? No. That part of him just didn’t exist any more. And that’s what his Mom and his brother could never get. He wasn’t choosing to be alone, any more than he’d chosen to have dark hair, or an aptitude for numbers.

  It was part of who he was now. Who he was destined to be. There was nothing anyone could do about that – not his mother, not his brother. Not himself. Not even Leah.

  Chapter 4

  His dark thoughts were scattered as Leah bustled back in from the kitchen, holding a hot plate with the edge of a cloth. The red tinsel had glued itself to the side of her cheek, skin flushed with the heat of the kitchen.

  “It’s only a steak,” she said, sounding nervous and happy and excited all at the same time. “I found it in the freezer. Just a little sauce to go with it, peppercorns; some nutmeg, cream and—”

  “Brandy,” he added as he took his first bite. “Because we’ve not had enough booze so far today, right? Leah, it’s delicious.”

  And it was. Simple, luscious and full of flavour. He knew this wasn’t a well-stocked gourmet kitchen, despite her claims. Leah had taken the absolute basics and conjured up something wonderful. The woman had talent. And passion – he could tell that from the way she hovered, waiting for his reaction. This was something she loved doing. He wondered, even though it
was none of his business, what she’d do with all that passion now, if she couldn’t go back to the bistro she’d mentioned.

  He looked up and smiled. Leah felt her heart do a little flip for no good reason. She was always cheered when people enjoyed her cooking, and when the satisfied customer came with the face of a Renaissance god, the body of an athlete and the tongue of a sinner. Well, she thought, that was what you called a good tip. She’d quite like to heat him up with some brandy and cream and serve him as pudding.

  She sat down to eat, realising how much she’d miss that first-bite reaction. How much she’d miss the bistro. Scouring the farmers’ markets for the freshest produce. Creating new dishes; giving them silly names and chalking them up on the specials board. She’s miss the hustle and bustle of restaurant life. The staff she worked with; their regulars, the blokes who ran the bar over the road, the homeless guys she saved leftovers for. She’d miss all of it, so much. It had been her reality for years – nice, fun, safe – and now it was all gone.

  Now, though, she reminded herself, was not a time for moping. Reality sucked, and therefore it could wait. If she crashed now, he’d go with her – and they’d spend the rest of Christmas Day sobbing into their wine glasses.

  Rob’s plate was soon clear. He didn’t lick it, but she could tell he wanted to. The ultimate compliment. It lifted her spirits straight away – if she achieved nothing else this Christmas, she’d fed a delicious meal to a delicious man. Even if he wasn’t hers for keeps.

  “Just wait ’til you taste dessert,” she said, raising her eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. Before he could respond, she disappeared off into the kitchen again, carrying off their used plates. She gave her bottom an extra wiggle as she went. Or the red wine did, at least.

  Rob smiled as she wiggled her ass at him. He sat still, leaning his elbows on the table. His belly was full of fine food, glass full of fine wine, his mind full of a fine woman…and he needed to ease up on all three. He was enjoying himself way too much. Way more than he deserved.

  He could hear Leah singing in the kitchen, murdering one of the carols being broadcast on the radio. Oh Come All Ye Faithful. He shook his head in amazement at her resilience. After seeing their fiancé doing the dirty with someone else, most girls would be snivelling in a corner, desperate to win him back or stab him in the eye with a stiletto heel. Instead, here she was. No sign of a nervous breakdown, or at the very least a firm grip on when she was going to allow it to happen. Distracting herself with cooking and singing and making him laugh. Not to mention kissing and wriggling and touching. God. He was getting hard again, even thinking about that action-packed little body of hers.

  As he once again plundered his brain cells for anti-aphrodisiac thoughts, all the lights went out, and the cottage was plunged into total darkness.

  Shit, he thought, blinking against the night until his eyes adjusted. The generator must have failed. Again. Happened at least once every year. One of the many joys of rural isolation.

  He heard a shriek from the kitchen and the sound of a plate falling to the floor, smashing on the cold stone flags. Rob scraped back his chair, felt his familiar way to the drawers and pulled them open. Once he’d managed to find the candles in their usual place, he dashed through to the kitchen.

  “Sorry!” Leah said, voice high and nervy. “I just got a shock when it all went dark! Hope it wasn’t priceless porcelain or anything.”

  She was squatting down in the darkness, trying to pick up the broken shards of pottery; hands shaking, feet bare.

  “Shush, it’s fine,” said Rob, offering a hand to pull her back up. “Leave that until we have light, I don’t want you to cut yourself.”

  She ignored his outstretched hand, and carried on scrabbling for the broken pieces, skimming her hands across the stone to find them.

  “ Leah. Listen to me, for Christ’s sake. Stand up in case you get hurt, there’s pieces of plate all over the damn floor and you have nothing on your feet.”

  “No, no, it’s okay. I can’t leave a mess like this,” she said, her pale skin luminous in the dark, toes missing the sharpened slivers of porcelain by inches as she scooted around the floor. With an exasperated sigh, Rob leaned down, scooped her up into his arms, and deposited her with a small thud on top of the work surface.

  “Oh!” she said, perched on the edge of the counter on her bottom, feet waving from side to side because her legs weren’t long enough to reach the floor. “You picked me up! And I’m huge!”

  “Yep. Just like a baby elephant, but not as cute. Now sit still there while I look for the matches. They’re behind you.”

  Rob leaned past her, his body crushing against hers, as he stretched his arms up to reach a shelf above Leah’s head. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his chest, smell the sweet fragrance of her shampoo, and knew that if he looked down into those amber eyes – even for a split second – he’d be lost. All resolve would be gone. And as Leah seemed decidedly tipsy, hers had probably already run for the hills.

  “Erm, Rob,” she said, the ever-present sound of laughter in her voice, “is that a candle you’re holding or are you just pleased to see me?”

  He could feel her body shaking against his as she giggled; could see the downright playful expression on her face even without electric lighting. She was asking for trouble and, frankly, he was desperate to give it to her.

  He slammed the candle down on the counter. Vision could wait, he decided. There were more pressing senses to be dealt with.

  She squeaked slightly as he shoved his way between her dangling legs, took her face in both his hands and held it firmly inches from his. Now he had her – what was he going to do with her?

  Leah was wondering exactly the same, and it felt delicious. Even in the darkness she could see the blazing intensity of those gold-brown eyes; the twist of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils. Oops. Maybe that had been one flirt too far, she thought, already swamped by the warmth of his breath on her face; the knowledge that all she had to do was lean in to those luscious lips for a kiss. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she might have had a bit too much to drink. She knew she was in no emotional state to be jumping into bed with someone new. She knew it was Christmas. She leaned.

  The heat was immediate as their lips met. Rob’s fingers caressed her cheekbones and jaw as he kissed her, then plunged into her hair, pulling it back from her face, holding her steady as the kiss intensified. The feel of his hard-planed body thrusting up against hers was exquisite; he wanted her as much as she wanted him, she could feel it in the urgency of his kiss, the push of his body. She instinctively hooked her legs around his waist and tugged him in tighter, rubbing herself up against him. He made a low growling sound and responded in kind. We’re so, so close, she thought, we’d be having sex, if it wasn’t for those pesky layers of clothing.

  He used the hands tangled in her hair and pulled her head to one side, leaning in to nuzzle the soft skin of her neck. The touch was barely there; a trace of tiny kisses and nibbles under her ears, across her throat, spreading to her shoulders, finding the tiny dips and hollows in her flesh that drove her wild. She’d expected brutal and hard: instead he gave her slow and sensual, and every inch of her body was begging for his mouth.

  “Rob, please…”

  ““For once, be quiet,” he muttered. I’m busy.”

  He pulled back, lifting his face to hers, their eyes meeting in the glow of the moonlight flooding in through the window.

  Never once breaking eye contact, Rob slid his hands beneath her T-shirt, and a shudder ripped through her as he placed them on the bare flesh of her waist. His fingers softly skimmed upwards, inch by slow, torturous inch; all the time the feel of his arousal pressing into her through the flimsy fabric of her leggings. She scooted her bottom forward even more until she was almost resting on him, getting as close as she could and still wanting more.

  His breathing was low and jagged as his hands moved upwards. And Leah, she was barely breathing
at all, lost in the power of his eyes, the sensation of long fingers stroking their way up her body, over her stomach, her ribs, edging ever nearer to the place she needed them to be. Her nipples had tightened into hard, explosive buds of excitement, and her breasts had taken on a life of their own, pushing themselves forward to meet his searching touch.

  Rob stroked the underside, the curve that jutted upwards; the delicate flesh of her areola puckering under his touch. He paused, felt the weight of her breasts in his hands, then captured one desperate nipple between finger and thumb, rolling and rubbing, sending an edge of delicious pain shooting through her body.

  Leah tangled her fingers into the midnight of his hair, pulled his lips to hers, drinking in the passion and sensuality of his mouth.

  “I need this,” she muttered. “Please. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

  He nodded. Tugged the T-shirt over her head. And thought he might come there and then when he saw those magnificent bosoms in all their glory; full and round and topped with perfect, hard nipples. He leaned forward, lifted one breast, and took the nipple into his mouth, tracing its contours with his tongue before sucking, gently at first, then harder, knowing from her quivering body, the feel of her fingers in his hair, that she was loving it. He moved to the other, all the while her quiet moaning begging him not to stop. As if. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

  He lifted her slightly, pulled the leggings down, moved his hand to her parted thighs. God, the heat was amazing. She was on fire. He glanced at her face: eyes glazed, mouth open, tiny whispers urging him on.

  He slid one long finger inside her, was instantly engulfed with moist heat as she started to thrust. He used his thumb to circle the swollen bud of her clitoris, all the time probing her with a steady rhythm her body was matching.