by Sandra Hill
Hmmm. Kevin hadn’t thought of that.
“I am not a criminal,” Cassandra said.
“Last I heard, pick pocketing is still a crime, darlin’,” Kevin reminded her.
She had the grace to blush and look away. Still, shame didn’t shut her up. “You were a pretty easy mark.”
Sam stared, before bursting out laughing. “She swiped your wallet?”
Kevin bristled. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to get robbed by an Amish woman.”
“You’re dragging her off to jail for pulling one over on you?” Slick said. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“Oh, that’s only the icing on the cake. Add to that the warrant in the city. Not to mention falsely impersonating a religious woman. Then there’s that gawdawful German accent.”
“Hey!”
“Merrick!” Betty Morgan bellowed.
Sam sighed. “Come on, JD. We’ll work this out on the bus.”
“I’m not getting on that bus!”
For a gorgeous young thing, Cassandra Lee Brandt was a pain in the ass. Kevin felt a twinge of guilt, though. It was Christmas, and her crime was fairly harmless in the scheme of things. So she’d disappeared so she wouldn’t have to testify on behalf of a two bit thug? He couldn’t blame her. On the other hand, the defense was desperate for her testimony, and was adamant about filing a bench warrant. And he was being paid good money to track her down and bring her in.
But then his sense of justice somehow got involved, and all he could think of was that she’d broken the law, and she needed to pay for it. At least he thought so.
“Your call, JD,” Sam said, although Kevin could swear he was looking at the woman sympathetically. Still, Slick would never, ever question his friend’s judgment, no matter how screwed up he might believe it to be.
Kevin sighed. “I’ll tell you what,” he offered the exasperating woman. “You’re getting on this bus. I’m cold and tired and I don’t want Betty stranding us. But if you can convince me between here and the closest Sheriff’s office that you have a real good reason for what you’ve done, I’ll consider forgetting I ever saw you.” He smiled. “In the spirit of Christmas and all.”
“I’m touched by your generosity,” she said, leaning into him, eyes shooting daggers.
“Ho, ho, ho.”
“Jerk, jerk, jerk,” she muttered under her breath, but allowed herself to be tugged along to the bus.
As they headed toward Kevin’s worst nightmare, Slick pounded him on the back. “This should be interesting,” he said.
“You can say that again,” Kevin grumbled.
As they approached the bus, Kevin figured out what all that green around the edges of the windows was. Holly and mistletoe. Good Lord.
Betty Morgan stood at the door to the bus, tapping her fingers against her crossed arms. “Well, if it isn’t the Wild Child,” she said, squinting at him.
“Ms. Morgan,” Kevin said, “You’re looking as beautiful as ever.”
“Cut the crap, Wilder.” She nodded at Cassandra Brandt. “And who’s this? Merrick didn’t mention anything about a second passenger.”
For some reason, Kevin didn’t have the heart to embarrass his prisoner. She might be on the run from the law, but she still had feelings. “This is my girlfriend, Cassandra.”
Cassandra made a stifled shrieking noise and narrowed her eyes on him, but to her credit, she pressed her lips together and swallowed any rude comments flitting through that pretty head of hers.
“Your girlfriend,” Betty said. “Right. And I’m Mother Teresa.”
“Oh, we’re madly in love, aren’t we, cupcake?” he said, then wiped a fallen snowflake from the tip of her nose.
She pressed her lips even further.
“She’s shy,” Kevin said.
“Have a tough time hanging onto your women, Wilder? Does that account for having to shackle her to keep her from running away?”
“We’re into . . . games, if you get my drift.”
“Right. What game are you playing today? The Amish woman and the outlaw?”
Considering he was the upstanding citizen in this crowd, he almost protested. But he swallowed the retort just in time. “Yes. It’s one of our favorites.”
“Uh-huh,” Betty grunted. “Well get your cans on the bus. We’re wasting time and the storm is just winding up.” She looked around them then. “Where’s your luggage?”
“We’re traveling light.”
“Uh-huh.”
Kevin tugged on Cassandra’s arm, then gave her a gentle shove through the door.
She turned and glared at him a final time before resignedly climbing the steps.
Kevin himself wasn’t all that eager to get on the bus, but this was the only option presenting itself. So he hauled himself up, only to be confronted with a busload of elderly Santas.
A chorus of “Hello, Kevins” greeted him, and he conjured up a smile. “Hi, all. It’s . . . nice seeing you again.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” one very tall Santa said. “Hi, JD.”
Kevin grinned. “Hey, Reba.” He went to hug her, but the clanking of the cuffs and the swift swing of Cassandra’s arm sort of ruined the reunion. He smiled an apology. “My girlfriend, Cassandra.”
“Right.”
“I’m Callie, and he’s kidnapping me,” Cassandra said.
Her proclamations were becoming irritating. “She’s such a kidder,” he retorted.
“Find a seat,” Reba said. “Or seats. We’ll talk,” she added to Ms. Cassandra, who was going to get it.
“We will,” Kevin said, before nudging his charge forward. He whispered in her ear, “Keep this up, and I’m testifying against you.”
“Truck you,” she whispered back.
“I’ve got twenty on him being in custody,” one Santa said.
“Fifty that the Amish woman’s with the FBI,” said another. “He’s under house arrest.”
“You need a haircut, Kevin,” one said, even as she clack-clacked on a keyboard.
Considering the purple hair peeking out from under a Santa hat, he had a pretty good idea who that one was. Maudeen, owner of the Clip ’N’ Curl in Snowdon. “Hello, Maudeen,” He stopped in front of her and pulled off Cassandra’s bonnet. “What would you do with this?”
Maudeen stared at the wild black hair that sprang loose, then went back to her typing. “I’d tell her there’s good money in modeling.”
“Maudeen Livingstone, this is Cassandra Brandt. Cassandra, Maudeen.”
“Actually, it’s Callie Brandt,” the woman retorted. Jeez, she was even fighting him over her name.
Maudeen glanced up from her laptop. “Callie Brandt? I have a couple of Callie Brandt numbers. Knock-offs, of course. Who could afford the originals? Any relation?”
Callie Brandt numbers? Did that mean she was a numbers runner, too?
Callie actually smiled. “That would be me. I hope you like them.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God. Really, that’s you? The pants suit is my absolute favorite, and the peignoir is a favorite among my gentlemen friends, if you get my drift.”
“I’m glad,” Callie said, while Kevin looked back and forth between them in total confusion.
“Hey, everyone!” Maudeen yelled, standing and turning around. “We have the Callie Brandt, the famous fashion designer, on our bus!”
A chorus of delighted squeals greeted that announcement as Kevin just stared at his prisoner. She wasn’t just a dressmaker, but a famous fashion designer? Maybe that’s why she’d looked a little familiar when he’d first seen her picture. Although he didn’t follow such things, it was impossible to live in New York and not see the television coverage of movie and play premieres. And it seemed like those things were always attended by people like that Calvin Klein guy. Of course, Kevin’s knowledge of fashion ended with a guy named Levi Strauss.
For the first time Maudeen spied the handcuffs. “Oh, my! Now there’s a fashion accessory that could prove interesting.�
� She studied Callie with a sharp eagle eye. “But honey, that dress has got to go.”
CHAPTER THREE
STAN
Tuesday afternoon, three days ’til Christmas Eve.
Snow, snow, and more snow.
Stan Kijewski cursed as he fought the rented Mercedes through the frozen, snow-covered ruts. Who knew Vermont had so damn many mountains? And why would anybody in their right mind be living smack dab in the middle of them at the end of a road that hadn’t been plowed since the Pilgrims landed?
He should have stayed in San Diego.
No, what he should have done was take that luscious brunette he met last month down to Cancun for the holidays. A few weeks of sand, sun, and hot, no-strings-attached sex would have fixed him right up. He’d been on the point of asking—Bridgette? Brittney?— when the White House had asked if he could do that kid’s Christmas fitness program with Schwartzenegger, and then George had called, and that had scotched Cancun and sex and Babs or Boobs or whatever her name was.
He was really sorry about missing the sex.
Not that there hadn’t been possibilities since, of course, even though D.C. wasn’t as well stocked with luscious, leggy brunettes as San Diego. But while he was all for no-strings fun, he wasn’t in favor of one night stands. One month of togetherness was about right. Two was okay. Hell, he’d even gone as long as nine months once, but a week or less—uh huh. A man had his standards, even if they were low.
The steering wheel jerked as the Mercedes’ front end fought to dive into the snow-packed ditch. Stan fought back, cursing the road and his shoulder and the throbbing pain in his damaged leg.
If he’d realized that George’s forest ranger friend lived this far beyond the back of beyond, he’d have rented a Humvee instead of a Mercedes. No, he’d have had the good sense to refuse to pick her up, no matter how much wheedling old George inflicted on him.
Just the thought of the unknown woman was depressing. Dana Freeman, forester. What kind of woman became a forester, for God’s sake?
Visions of plaid flannel shirts and khaki pants on a lumberjack’s muscular body flashed through his mind. She probably drove an old Jeep and lived in a log cabin with an outhouse and spent her winter evenings down at the local pool hall, arm-wrestling for fun.
Paul Bunyan in a bra. Swell.
For this he’d traded in a perfect 38-22-38 in a bikini? No two ways about it—the gods really did have it in for him.
The Mercedes bucked its way around a curve and there, up ahead on the right, was a picturesque little Victorian cottage set amidst snow-covered pines and winter-bared maples and oaks. Though it was still early afternoon, someone had turned on the colored lights that trimmed the eaves and outlined every window, offering a bit of unexpected color on this snowy gray day. The lights on the Christmas tree visible through one of the lace-curtained front windows winked in welcome.
Stan stomped on the brakes, bringing the Mercedes to a skidding halt. Victorian cottages and Christmas lights and lace curtains? Here?
A pang of something that felt very much like longing, but couldn’t be, hit him hard.
Except for the ancient International Scout that was parked to one side, the place looked like something Hallmark had done up for a holiday special. Had he, perhaps, taken the wrong turning?
But, no. He’d double-checked the sign on the mailbox before he’d turned off the paved road. This was the only house he’d come to and the road clearly didn’t go any farther. “Can’t miss it!” George had assured him. “It’s the only house on the road!”
Stan glared at the Christmas-card perfect scene. Why would anyone bother with Christmas trees and decorative lights out here where nobody but the squirrels would see?
And why did he think it was so right that they had?
Shaking off the thought, Stan set the Mercedes at the last little uphill run to the front yard, fighting his way over ice and yet more frozen, snow-covered ruts before coming to a stop beside the battered Scout. A Scout, he couldn’t help noting, that had a small snow plow mounted on its front bumper. Just the sort of thing a lumberjack would have. That made him feel a little better about that unexpected pang.
Forget about the house and the decorations, Stan told himself firmly, reaching for his cane. He’d been right about the transport. It only remained to meet Ms Freeman to find out he’d been right about her, too. And he wasn’t thinking this was the kind of house a fellow should come home to for Christmas. Of course not! No one who’d grown up in an orphanage had any illusions about the season or what lay behind a few electric lights.
And yet . . . No, forget that.
Stretching a little to ease the dull ache in his shoulder, he opened the car door and awkwardly swung his feet to the ground. Snow swallowed his shoes and snuck down his socks.
Wonderful.
More curses as he struggled out of the car. He didn’t have half these problems in a properly paved parking lot.
Moving carefully and feeling his way with the tip of his cane, he managed to get ten feet from the car when a woman walked around the corner of the house.
“Mr. Kijewski?”
Unadulterated shock almost landed him on his ass in a snow bank. “Ms Freeman?” It came out more of a croak than a question.
She nodded. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Stan cleared his throat and tried to keep his eyes from bugging out. He’d been right about the transportation, wrong about the house, and dead wrong about Ms Freeman.
Dana Freeman was tall, all right. She was also slender as a reed, but with curves in what looked like all the right places. He couldn’t be sure about the top because she was wearing a bulky turtleneck sweater under a puffy, waist-length down vest, but below the vest . . .
His eyes slid down the length of her.
Below the vest was Heaven. She had a narrow waist that curved out into slender hips, followed by long, long, long legs. Beautiful legs. Perfect, sexy, drive-you-to-wet-dreams long legs. He could tell because they were encased in a pair of those form-hugging pants that revealed every perfect curve and tempting line of her.
God bless the makers of Lycra.
Stan forced himself to start breathing, then dragged his gaze back up—and promptly stopped breathing again.
Dana Freeman was, quite simply, gorgeous. She had the delicate perfection of one of those Renaissance Madonnas some girlfriend had dragged him to the museum to see, years ago. He’d forgotten the girlfriend, but those faces with their wide eyes and smooth skin and perfect mouths had stuck with him, coolly beautiful, distant and untouchable.
Dana had that kind of face, a perfect oval with fine-cut features and a soft, inviting mouth. Her skin was the same pale, petal-soft skin that made you think you could see light shining through if the angle was just right. Unlike those dusky Madonnas in the museum, however, Dana had hair so blonde it was almost white. It hung straight to her waist like a shimmering silk scarf whose colors changed subtly with each movement and shift of light. Her eyes weren’t brown, either. They were pale blue ice and they were fixed on him with unnerving directness.
Cold pale blue ice Stan realized, coming back to earth with a thud as her gaze slid down his body as coolly as his had slid down hers. “You can come in while I get my bag,” she said, clearly unimpressed. She gestured to the cane. “Do you need any help?”
“No!” He immediately regretted the shout. It made him sound too defensive. Too . . . surly. “Thanks.”
“All right.” She didn’t seem to care, one way or the other. Without another word, she turned and headed toward her front door.
Puzzled, and manfully stifling the urge the cuss, Stan followed after. Since when did he care about surly? And what kind of person left another person with a crippled leg and a cane to flounder through the snow on their own, even if he had said he didn’t need her help? And he absolutely, for sure, definitely was not pissed that she hadn’t been impressed. No way, no how, just didn’t happen. He was not, repeat, not
pissed!
Dana thought her heart was going to pound right out of her chest. Stan “The Man” Kijewski, star quarterback for the San Diego Typhoons until someone ran a red light and ended his career, was even more compelling in person than on the playing field, and that was saying a lot. Dangerously, tantalizingly compelling.
She ought to know. She’d watched him play football for almost twelve years now. On Saturdays when he was in college, then every Sunday afternoon or Monday night after he’d turned pro, she’d made sure she was close enough to a TV set to be able to catch the game. With her line of work, that hadn’t always been easy, but then, what in life ever was?
It was all George’s fault, of course. He’d rescued her from the Beerson Home for Girls, which was fifteen miles and one town over from the White Mountain Home for Boys where Stan had grown up. George had taught her to love the wilderness, football, and Stan Kijewski, though not deliberately, and not necessarily in that order.
And now Stan was here and all she could think about was that he was gorgeous and she was still tall, gawky, and tongue-tied. Worse, he clearly didn’t want to be here. He’d scowled when he looked at her and half bitten her head off when she’d asked if he needed any help. And since when did a man like Stan Kijewski need anyone’s help, anyway?
Although she tried to pretend indifference, she was acutely aware of him behind her. She could hear the muffled thud of his cane hitting the frozen ground and the scraping, shushing sound as he dragged his damaged leg through the snow.
The thought of his injuries, and what he’d lost because of them, broke her heart. It wasn’t fair, but then, life wasn’t any more fair than it was easy.
Stan Kijewski deserved better than that, though. Despite the hard knocks life had handed him, he’d had the courage and talent to make it to the top in a mercilessly competitive field. She’d retreated into the woods and the often solitary job of a forester because they filled some, at least, of the loneliness in her. Not all, but enough. Unlike him, she’d never had the nerve to try for anything more.
“Shit! Arrrhhhh!”
