by Sandra Hill
He didn’t protest about the extra plate. The sandwich he built would have done justice to an army of lumberjacks and he was working his way through his second glass of milk before she was halfway through her first.
Thankfully, he kept the conversation on safe topics like the weather or her work. She didn’t think she could have kept up her facade of indifference if he’d ventured into more personal territory.
Just being this close to him was doing strange, unnerving things to her, making her heart pound and her palms sweat, making her think thoughts she’d tried, until now, to keep strictly for her hottest, most secret dreams. If he ever guessed at what she was thinking, she’d die of mortification, right here at her kitchen table. It was all she could do not to fling herself across the table and into his arms, and to hell with the ham, cheese, and mayo.
Stan dug into the simple meal with immense satisfaction. Dana Freeman wasn’t anywhere near as uninterested in him as she tried to pretend. Not anywhere near.
What he couldn’t explain was why that fact pleased him so.
Granted, she was gorgeous, but he was used to gorgeous. Maybe not quite that gorgeous, certainly not in that slightly ethereal, Renaissance Madonna way that was uniquely hers, but still gorgeous. And he’d known a couple of women with similarly deep, soft voices, but none whose simplest utterance could make electricity skitter up and down his spine.
Maybe it was because it was so damned comfortable here, sitting in this warm, bright kitchen, talking while the snow fell soft and heavy outside. The aches and pains and nerve-tightening tensions of these last few weeks were fading away, leaving him feeling more relaxed and contented than he’d been in a long, long time.
Maybe it was the faint scent of pine and cinnamon that hung in the air, or the quiet ticking of the grandfather’s clock in the living room. A house—a real home—should always smell of pine and cinnamon and have an old clock tick-tocking somewhere in the background. The nine thousand square feet of house in San Diego where he stored his extra shoes and socks had neither. It was a nice house, though it had never been a home. But this little cottage tucked away in the Vermont woods . . .
Stan sighed in sudden contentment and glanced about the kitchen with its white painted cabinets and old china plates on the wall and the Santa tea towel looped through the handle of the refrigerator.
This was a home, a place where you didn’t have to be anyone but yourself. A place where you belonged instead of feeling like you were just passing through.
Stan dragged his gaze back to Dana.
Or maybe it was just her. She was so . . . calm. So sure of herself. Even though she was as intensely aware of him as he was of her, there was still a quiet reserve about her, a gentle dignity that he found strangely tantalizing. Every time he looked at her he found himself wondering what she would be like naked in bed with that soft, deep voice grown rough with desire and that reserved dignity blown away by the mind-bending sex they were sharing.
The fantasy shattered when she abruptly pushed away from the table.
“I suppose we’d better think about getting on the road before the weather gets any worse,” she said, flushing slightly under his gaze.
Before he could respond, his cell phone rang. With a sigh, he fished it out of the inner pocket of his sport coat and snapped it open. “Kijewski.”
“Stanley, you ugly bastard, where the hell are you?”
Stan grinned. “Try calling me that to my face, Slick, just try.”
“What? You object to the truth?”
Stan laughed. Slick knew it wasn’t the masculine endearment of “ugly bastard” that he objected to. The first time they’d met, they’d both been about ten years old. Slick had called him “Stanley,” and Stan had beaten the shit out of him. Of course, Slick always claimed it was he that beat the shit out of Stan. Whichever way it was, they’d emerged from that fight bloody, bruised, and friends for life.
“Actually,” Slick continued, “I’m calling to find out where you are.”
“Me? I’m sitting in a comfortable kitchen with a beautiful woman for company.”
The back of Dana’s neck went red as she bent over the sink. Stan had to repress the urge to walk over there and take that crazy clip out of her hair so all that white-gold silk could tumble into his hands and—
He forced his attention back to the phone. “This weather sucks.”
“Tell me about it. JD and . . . uh . . . a friend just joined us.”
“Us?”
“Me and Reba Anderson—you remember Reba?” There was an odd note in Slick’s voice when he mentioned Reba. “And the Santa Brigade.”
“The what?”
“I’ll explain later. But we’ve got a bus that’s the only thing running right now and Betty Morgan’s driving and—”
“You’re on a bus with Betty Bad-Ass? What in hell—”
“ . . . we thought you might want to join us, too.”
“Join you?”
Dana dumped the last of the dishes in the drainer and glided out of the kitchen. Stan craned around in his chair to watch her go. On a scale of one to ten, that woman’s ass rated fifteen, even in jeans. And the rest of her—
“Anyway,” Slick said in his ear, bringing him back to attention, “Betty says we’ll be hitting Vermont in a couple of hours and maybe we can meet you somewhere.”
Get on a crowded bus when he could have Dana all to himself? Slick had to be kidding. But then, he hadn’t met Dana.
“Nah. Thanks, anyway. I think we can manage just fine, Slick. I’ve—” He stopped as Dana abruptly appeared in the kitchen doorway, gesturing for him to wait. “Hang on a minute, will you?”
“The roads are closed,” Dana said, that beautiful Madonna face suddenly looking grim. “All of them. I just called and checked.”
“All of them?” Stan had a sudden vision of holing up with her for the next few days, just the two of them here in the kitchen, or cuddled in front of the fireplace, or in her bed—
“All of them. If your friend has a bus that’s still getting through, it may be our only way to get to Maine by Friday.”
Friday. George. The wedding.
Hell.
“Uh, Slick? We may have to take you up on that offer after all.”
“Let me talk to him,” Dana ordered, stretching out her hand for the phone.
Stan didn’t really mind handing over the phone since that gave him more freedom to watch Dana, but he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Dana talking to Slick. The bastard was a damned babe magnet. He could scratch his butt and women swooned at his feet. All he’d have to do is hear her voice and—
But then Stan remembered Reba was on that bus and that odd note in Slick’s voice, and he grinned.
Dana, distracted, gave him a tentative smile back. “Unh huh,” she said into the phone. “Yeah.” The smile slid into a frown. She even looked good frowning. “Watkins Junction’s about six miles from here as the crow flies . . . Yeah . . . All right . . . Okay. We’ll see you then.”
She snapped the phone off and handed it back to Stan. “We’ve got a plan.”
So do I, Stan thought. He’d bet she wore lacy underwear even when she was out chopping down trees or hunting bears. Skimpy, sexy, lacy underwear in all sorts of ice-cream colors. The kind that you could see through. The kind that slid off with just a—
“We’re going to meet your friends at Watkins Junction,” she said.
It was Stan’s turn to frown. “What’s wrong with driving?”
“The roads are closed.”
“You’ve got a snow plow on that old Scout.”
“You want to plow the roads all the way to Maine?”
That Ice Maiden frost was back in her voice. Even that was sort of sexy. It made him think of all the different ways he could warm her up.
“I dunno. If it was just the two of us—”
The frost turned to icicles. “Forget it.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. The movement
did amazing things for that already generous bustline.
“I’ve got a better plan,” she said.
“Yes?” said Stan hopefully.
“I’ve got this snow mobile . . . ”
CHAPTER FOUR
SAM
Tuesday, evening, three days ’til Christmas Eve.
“Gotcha!”
With that single word, when her attention had wandered for all of a nanosecond, Sam cornered her in the back of the bus by sliding onto the bench seat next to her, thus trapping her against the window. What a tight squeeze it was, too, considering her bulk in the Santa suit!
“You are so juvenile,” she said with a sniff.
“Yep,” he agreed and adjusted his body closer to hers, something she would not have thought possible.
With all the movement he was making, he shook some of the boxes stacked behind. There was a chorus of “Suzie Gotta Pee,” “Suzie Gotta Pee,” “Suzie Gotta Pee,” “Suzie Gotta Pee” from some of the gifts left over from the last shelter stop.
“What the hell?” Sam exclaimed as he turned to straighten the talking boxes.
“Samuel Merrick!” Emma Smith chided from the seat in front of them. Emma, a large, husky woman, much like Camryn Manheim, but older, and brusquer, was a retired eighth grade teacher, who had taught them all. The one thing she could not abide was bad language and she heard every bit of it with her trusty Miracle-Aid. “Tsk, tsk, tsk!”
Sam folded his hands in his lap and said, “Sorry, ma’am,” batting his eyelashes with exaggeration. Once Emma turned around with a huff, he ruined the good little boy effect by winking at Reba. God, that wink went through her like an erotic current. The man was lethal. And way too close.
She doubted whether pushing him would do much good; the determined gleam in his eyes said loud and clear that no quarter would be given by this soldier, not after her having blocked all his previous moves. Plus, he had about seventy-five pounds on her. She supposed she could scream for help, but what a sight that would be . . . nine overaged Santas to the rescue . . . assuming they would come to her rescue, considering how Sam was charming the liver spots off of them all . . . darn it.
Yep, Sam had her right where he wanted her, apparently, after a day and some odd hours of the pursuit-and-avoid game they’d been playing. Who am I kidding? It’s exactly twenty-eight hours and thirty-five minutes since The Good-bye Kiss . . . not that I’m keeping tabs. And, heavens to Betsy, why am I feeling all melty inside at the prospect of the louse’s having me where he wants me?
“Hello,” Sam said.
“Good-bye,” she said.
He smiled.
She frowned.
He took her hand in his.
She pulled her hand away from his.
It was all so childish. But they weren’t children anymore, and Reba couldn’t risk the powerful wave of pain that would surely accompany any association with Sam. She didn’t want to hear his phony excuses. She didn’t want to discuss her long-standing anger toward him. She didn’t want anything to do with the testosterone-oozing hunk. Stiffening her spine, she steeled herself to resist the allure he offered, and, yes, he was alluring, even as he merely sat beside her. Seemingly innocent. Never innocent.
He reached for her hand again, and she swatted him away, again, but harder this time. “Ouch,” he said with a grin.
“Cut it out, Sam. Just cut it out.”
The fury underlying her words must have struck a chord in him somewhere. He stilled. “What?”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. In fact, don’t even look at me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you watch me all the time, just waiting for a chance to pounce.”
“Hey, I do not pounce.” He studied her carefully as if trying to figure out some puzzle. Then, he concluded in typical Dumb Man fashion, “You are being really intense here, sweetheart. That has got to be a good sign. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t react so strongly, right? You must not want me near you because you fear the temptation. Yep, a very good sign.”
“Either that, or you repulse me.”
He appeared to give that serious consideration, then decided, “No, no, no! I won’t consider that possibility.”
“Stay away from me, Sam. I’m not one of your groupies. I’m not your . . . anything.”
The vehemence of her response seemed to stun him, but then he immediately switched to irritation. “Groupies? Are you nuts? I have never been into the Blues’ groupie scene.”
“I wasn’t talking about the Blue Angels. I was talking about you, Mister Egomaniac.”
“Me? You are suffering from a huge misconception, honey. I don’t have groupies.”
“Oh, Sam, you’ve always had groupies.”
He threw his hands in the air. “This is a ridiculous conversation. I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about you. I want to talk about us.”
“Here’s a news flash. There is no us.”
The sadness on his face tore at her soul, but at least he had the good judgment to say nothing for a few moments. He must have sensed her growing agitation and realized that the best thing he could do was sit silently next to her and let her grow accustomed to his presence. Which she would never do. Not now. Not ever. No way. Please, God!
When did it turn so warm in here? Betty must have jacked up the heat.
When did Sam start wearing aftershave, or was that tangy evergreen scent just a residue of soap on his skin? Heck it was probably just the greenery that decorated each of the windows in the bus. How pathetic am I?
When would she stop noticing every little thing about him? The intriguing laugh lines that bracketed the edges of his blue eyes and the corners of his firm mouth. Or perhaps they were sun crinkles, living in Florida as he did much of the year. Then, there was his rigid military demeanor, even when he stretched his long legs out into the aisle, or joked with the senior Santas, or, Saints forbid, gazed at her with a longing that was anything but soldierly. And, criminey, he had a body perfectly honed to suit the military and a grown woman’s humming hormones.
She must have been more exhausted than she’d realized to have allowed Sam to slip past her watchful guard. It was only eight p.m. But she’d been up since five. In the midst of some stress over the weather conditions, they’d performed two shows today, in Sarasota Springs, New York, and Burlington, Vermont, after which they’d picked up Stan and his lady friend, Dana . . . rather, George’s friend, Dana . . . or was it both? In any case, she was on the way to the wedding, too. That, on top of JD and the Amish woman, Callie, hopping onto the bus this morning. They were becoming a regular reunion commune. Right now, JD and Callie were sitting on the front seat of the bus, with Stan and Dana on the opposite side. The two men were chatting amiably across the aisle, while the women stared pensively out the darkened windows.
“That was not a good-bye kiss. No way was that a good-bye kiss!” Sam declared, out of the blue, jarring her out of her mental wanderings. Good Lord, the man was resuming a day-old conversation, as if it had never been interrupted.
“I am not going to discuss this.”
“This?”
“Us,” she said. “It’s over . . . done with.”
“No, it’s not, Reba. God, I hate that song. I can’t think when I hear that song. Can’t you make them stop?”
“Huh?” Reba glanced up, realizing that her Santa crew had started caroling, as they often did, not just to practice for their homeless shelter events, but because they were, frankly, a cheerful group. It was the holiday season, for goodness sake. “What do you have against Christmas songs, Mr. Grinch?”
He poked her playfully in the arm, but the playfulness never reached his somber eyes. “I don’t hate all Christmas songs, just that one,” he grumbled.
She narrowed her eyes at him, interested, despite herself. “And why would that be? Too lower class for a hoity-toity celebrity pilot?”
At first, it appeared as if he wouldn’t answer her, but then he disclosed somethi
ng he hadn’t shared with her in all the eight years she’d known him.
“My mother gave me up two days before Christmas when I was ten years old. Just walked into a police station, said she needed to find a home for me, plopped down a paltry little cardboard box with all my worldly belongings, and left. Just like that. In the background, that stinkin’ `Jingle Bells’ song was playing. I’ll never forget it. Me screaming like a banshee for my mother to come back, and Bing Crosby crooning away with those cheerful cornball lyrics.”
Suddenly, a look of horror spread over his face as he realized how much he’d revealed. “Forget I said that. God above! Here I am trying to charm you into talking with me. Instead, you must think I’m downright pitiful.”
Reba didn’t think he was pitiful, at all. In fact, she was deeply touched. “You’ve certainly come a long way since then, Sam. Your mother would be so proud of you.”
“My mother could have cared less.”
Reba would have liked to argue that point. After all, she held a masters degree in psychology. Here was a man with major unresolved issues . . . and not just dealing with his mother. But it was none of her business, really.
He ran the fingertips of one hand over his forehead, an unconscious effort to smooth out the creases.
Reba had to make a fist to keep herself from reaching out and doing the smoothing herself.
“Tell me about The Santa Brigade . . . and Winter Haven. I never thought you’d follow in your Dad’s footsteps with a nursing home.”
“It just happened. I was in private practice . . . working for a Bangor psychological clinic when Dad got cancer. I took a leave to come home and care for him, which meant taking over directorship of the retirement community on a temporary basis. It hasn’t been a nursing home for years, by the way. Dad was in hospice for a year before he died. By then I discovered that I liked the work, and I took over.” She shrugged. What she left out was the agony of that year, caring for a loved one through that horrendous disease.
“It appears as if you’ve made the retirement community your own, though. Lots of modern ideas.”
