'Twas the Night

by Sandra Hill

  He had to go find Dana. He’d iron or sew on buttons if he had to—he was pretty sure he remembered how to sew on buttons—but he was not staying in that damned kitchen one more minute. Not when Dana was out there instead of in here with him.

  He’d thought he’d had it all worked out. She’d help him with the chili, which would give him an excuse to get close to her and to feed her and watch the way that little crease formed on the bridge of her nose whenever she was thinking hard. He’d ply her with wine then maybe, just maybe, convince her to sneak away to the pantry, where they could try out a couple of wild little fantasies he had about her and him and those long, long legs of hers wrapped tight around him.

  But somehow it hadn’t worked out that way and he couldn’t bear to spend another minute with the chili when he could have all the spice a man would ever need with her.

  He got as far as the door to the dining room when he was suddenly brought up short.

  Two handsome, tousle-headed males had gotten to her first. One of the twins was sitting on her lap, gazing up at her with adoration, while the other was resting, knees tucked under his chin, on the dining room chair beside her. Both boys were perfectly still and quiet, so entranced by whatever tale she was telling that they’d stopped wiggling and talking and were just sitting there, hanging on her every word.

  Stan blinked. Then he grabbed the edge of the door for support as a hunger that wasn’t sex but that was as sharp and hot and demanding as anything he’d ever felt damn near drove him to his knees.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SAM

  Wednesday night, two days ’til Christmas Eve.

  “Holy hell, Slick! Where’d you get all these candles?”

  Where’d you get all these candles? Sam mimicked JD’s words to himself, silently, but out loud all he said was, “Go away, JD.”

  “Is that any way to talk to a friend?” JD tsk-tsked a few times before he added, “Are you making a shrine here? Like, uh, are you gonna be prayin’ or somethin’?”

  Hardly! Well, maybe, but not for peace and goodwill toward all men.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you down on your knees.”

  Oooh, I intend to be down on my knees, all right, but I won’t be praying. Sam had been arranging some pillows he’d filched from the lodge. He turned around, intending to set JD straight, only to see him grinning like a Cheshire cat. The bum hadn’t meant praying with the knees remark, after all.

  His good buddy was leaning casually against the jamb of the open doorway of his cabin, legs crossed at the ankles. The problem was, Sam wasn’t in the mood for buddying around right now, and he’d deliberately chosen one of the cabins farthest from the lodge to ensure his privacy. He’d left the door open, temporarily, to create a draft for the fire which now roared in the stone fireplace.

  “So, do you carry candles around with you all the time? Are they, like, ingredients for smoothness? I mean, do you have an actual smoothness kit?”

  Sam made a snorting sound of disgust. “I bought them from Maudeen.”

  “Maudeen had . . . ” JD made a great show of pointing to each of the candles and counting, “ . . . twenty-three candles on her person?”

  “Not exactly on her person. They were donations to the Santa Brigade . . . leftovers,” Sam explained defensively.

  Hell, it should be obvious, considering the condition of the candles. There were thin tapers and fat candles that gave off holiday scents. Some were in the shape of objects, like Santas or Christmas trees, and some were in cheap holders. One of them might even be a menorah. But all of them were scratched or bent . . . damaged goods donated by some business. “Don’t worry about the Santa Brigade’s depleted stock, though. The old bird ripped me off big time before she dug into her Santa goodie bag. She charged me a hundred bucks, which she’ll use to buy more stuff.”

  JD’s jaw dropped open. “Why?”

  “Why what? Why did Maudeen take me to the cleaners?”

  “Why did you want so blinkin’ many candles?”

  Sam quirked one eyebrow at his friend, as if he were dense as a doorknob . . . which he was not.

  JD scanned the small cabin, which consisted of the main living area where the fireplace was located with two big easy chairs, some kerosene lamps, and a big ol’ bear rug on the floor. Frankly, it was the big ol’ bear rug that had sold him on this particular cabin. Man, did he have plans for Mr. Grizzley! Wide archways opened off two sides, one leading into a kitchenette and the other into a small bedroom where already the high bed had been made up with linens, wool blankets and a brightly covered patchwork quilt. Under the candle light, the worn fabrics and carpet and the dingy log walls were invisible. You could hardly tell that the random plank pine flooring had needed resanding for at least twenty years. Instead, the cabin looked charming and warm and . . . romantic.

  “Oh,” JD said as understanding dawned. “Golly gee, Slick, you are one smooth sucker. I never would have thought of this kind of thing . . . ahead of time.”

  That remark didn’t ever merit a response. “How’d you find me anyhow?”

  “Followed the wheelbarrow tracks.”

  That made sense. No way had Sam been going to make multiple trips up this mountainside from the lodge to cart all the things he’d needed to clean and spruce up the cabin. He’d found one of those old-fashioned, deep wheelbarrows in a tool shed.

  “Those tracks aren’t going to be visible for long, though. The snow’s coming down thicker’n thieves now.”

  Sam nodded, discerning JD’s hidden message. They were going to be snowbound here for awhile, and there was a chance they might not be able to make George’s wedding. He would hate for that to happen. They all would.

  “So, are you staying in the lodge then?”

  “Nope,” JD answered with a wide grin. “I’m your neighbor. Next cabin down.”

  “Great! Maybe I can borrow a cup of sugar, or something.”

  “In case you want to bake a cake, or something?”

  “Go away, JD.”

  Of course, JD did just the opposite. He entered the cabin, closing the door behind him. “So, what else did Cyber Granny have in her goodie bag?”

  Sam pointed to a small tape player, punched a button, and out came Chris deBurgh with his hot, sexy rendition of “The Lady in Red.” Sam thought that song was particularly appropriate since his lady was most often seen of late in a red Santa suit. But then, the only other choice Maudeen had offered him was Sam Cooke’s Greatest Hits.

  JD’s jaw dropped another notch.

  Then Sam showed him the small table in the kitchen area covered with a red and green plaid tablecloth. You could hardly see the chips in the ironstone china for all the sprigs of holly, interspersed with mistletoe, that surrounded the plates and the candle centerpiece. He’d declined Maudeen’s offer of fruitcake and eggnog, but there was an assortment of plastic-wrapped cheeses, crackers, a can of caviar, a mini rum cake, and even a bottle of wine.

  “For later,” he explained since they’d all just eaten a hearty potluck meal down at the lodge.

  JD’s jaw dropped yet another notch.

  “And here’s the coop de grass,” he said, deliberately misspeaking the phrase, as he and the guys always used to do following high school French classes. He opened a gift box and took out an object, which he held in the air by two thin straps. It was a black lace teddy. What Maudeen had been going to do with it, he had no idea . . . and he didn’t want to know. “Y’know what the best thing is about this . . . thing?” Maudeen had called it a teddy . . . a “Freddy Teddy,” to be precise . . . from Frederick’s of Hollywood. But he’d be damned if he’d tell JD that.

  “The strategically placed red bows?”

  “Nope. It’s heat sensitive.”

  “I . . . beg . . . your . . . pardon.”

  “See, whenever these little bells in the front get warm, they play music.” He held the cluster of tiny bells tightly in his fist for a moment until they began playing, “Jingle
Bells.” Sam thought this was one instance when he might be able to put up with that stupid song.

  JD grinned as he considered all the ways that enough heat could be generated to jumpstart the bells. Then he demanded, “Give me some of this stuff.”

  Sam laughed. “Not on your life.”

  “Sell me some stuff then.”

  “No. Besides, I doubt if you have enough money. Callie probably pickpocketed you again.”

  JD made a scoffing noise at that prospect. Still, he patted his jacket pocket, just to make sure his wallet was still there. “C’mon. For old times sake.”

  “You’ve played the old times sake card too many times over the years. Time for you to go away and play with your . . . uh, handcuffs,” he advised, shoving JD toward the door. Then he stopped in his tracks. “On the other hand, I might consider trading a half dozen candles for . . . ”

  JD laughed, knowing what was coming.

  “ . . . a set of handcuffs.”

  JD laughed some more. But he didn’t say no.

  Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy!

  After JD was gone, Sam leaned back against the closed door, twirled a set of handcuffs like a lasso, and smiled to himself. Mistletoe, a bear rug and handcuffs! Is this a man’s idea of the perfect Christmas, or what?

  Now, next step on his agenda. How to lure Reba to his bear lair?

  Man, oh, man. it was creepy, tiptoeing down the eerily silent, deserted hallways of the second floor at the lodge, searching for Reba’s room. It was almost like the horror movie, The Shining which took place in an empty, off-season lodge. If anyone even remotely resembling Jack Nicholson wielding a knife popped out of one of these doorways, Sam swore he was going to have a heart attack.

  “What’re you doin’, skulking around?” a crotchety old voice inquired behind him.

  Sam’s heart bungee-jumped up to his throat, and, yep, his body was on autopilot and he was approaching heart attack city. “Jeez, Maudeen! Couldn’t you give a guy warning before sneaking up on him?”

  “Seems to me, you’re the one sneakin’, buddy boy.”

  He turned around and felt himself go bug-eyed at what he saw. Maudeen in a calf-length, two-piece outfit that he thought was referred to as a peignoir set. It was made of some thin swishy material in bright pink. On her feet were backless high heels covered with feathery puffs in matching hot pink. Her hair was also pink tonight. She looked like a big fluff of candy cotton.

  “Where are you off to in that get-up?” he finally managed to get out.

  “Morey’s room. We have a date.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God!

  In one hand, she carried a bottle of champagne. In the other, a jar with a small paint brush attached.

  “And that?” He pointed at the jar.

  “Chocolate body paint.”

  Oh . . . my . . . God! Then he thought of something else. “How come you didn’t offer me that when you sold me all those freakin’ candles?”

  “Watch yer language, sonny. And the reason is, you didn’t ask. You should be familiar with that drill, being in the military and all. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’ Ha, ha, ha.”

  Her little joke didn’t merit even a chuckle from him. So, he threw a twenty dollar bill at her and grabbed the jar, stuffing it in his jacket pocket.

  “I suppose you’re on the prowl for Reba,” Maudeen said. “Big plans, huh?” No beating around the bush with this senior babe.

  He nodded. Being busted by a Pretty-in-Pink Cyber Granny sort of paralyzed a guy’s tongue.

  Maudeen motioned with her thumb toward the next doorway, then continued down the corridor where Morey opened a door before she even knocked. In that brief moment before he whisked Maudeen inside, Sam saw Morey, in all his glory. No suspenders this time! Nope, the old goat wore a long silk robe, belted at the waist, and a jaunty cravat tied at his neck. Just like an old 1940’s David Niven movie, minus the thin mustache.

  With a shake of his head to clear it of that image, Sam walked over and knocked softly on Reba’s door. Reba cracked the door open almost immediately.

  “Sam! What are you doing here?”

  “Let me come in.”

  “I’m not dressed,” she said.

  “Good.” He pushed his way in, not wanting to gain the attention of any more seniors lodging on this floor. Lord knows what they were up to! Then, he observed, “You are so dressed.”

  Unlike the hot-to-trot Maudeen, Reba was wearing a long flannel nightgown and big wool socks. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail, and her face was scrubbed free of make-up. In other words, she looked adorable.

  “Nice duds!” he commented, walking further into her room . . . a suite, actually. Or it would have been a posh mountain suite at one time . . . about a century ago. Now, suffering from severe neglect, it was just a big old log-walled room with a cold fireplace, faded furniture and threadbare carpets. Its one redeeming value was the wide sweep of windows that covered one wall, looking out at the mountains. A spectacular view right now, with the snow coming down heavily like a wispy white lace curtain, underlit by the warm glow of an old fashioned gas lamp.

  “It’s cold. And I wasn’t expecting company tonight.” Reba crossed her arms defensively over her chest. As if he could see anything under that L.L. Bean version of a negligee!

  “Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested suddenly.

  “A walk? Are you nuts? It’s about ten degrees outside. And snowing to beat the band.”

  “I want to show you my cabin.”

  “Uh-huh. Not tonight, Sam.”

  “You and I have unfinished business,” he told her, walking up real close. With the fingertips of one hand, he traced her lips which parted as she gazed unblinkingly at him. But forget about the parted lips; there was a stubborn jut to her chin, as well. “You and I have unfinished business,” he repeated, this time in a more insistent tone.

  “I know, but I’ve been thinking . . . ”

  Uh-oh! Always a bad idea when a woman starts thinking! “ . . . perhaps we should wait ’til after George’s wedding. Decisions shouldn’t be made in the heat of passion.”

  Heat of passion? He liked the sound of that. “On the other hand, sometimes people wait too long, and the opportunity gets lost. You and I do not want to lose each other again, Reba.”

  “Sometimes it’s best to wait for the right time . . . ,” she countered, “. . . to see what God . . . or the fates . . . have in store for us. If it was meant to be, it will be.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’?”

  She laughed at his perseverance.

  “You said you loved me.”

  “I do.”

  “Well?”

  She sighed deeply. “Sometimes love isn’t enough. Oh, don’t go frowning, Sam. I’m not saying I want to end anything. I just don’t want to begin anything hastily, either. Everything has happened so quickly these past two days. We need to slow down and act like adults, not teenagers with raging hormones.”

  “You know what I think, Reba? You think too much.” With that, he reached down and took one of her hands in his. Raising it to his mouth, he kissed each of her knuckles . . . just before he clicked a handcuff to her wrist. She barely had a chance to register what he’d done when he snapped the other metal bracelet on her other wrist.

  She stared, flabbergasted, at her shackled wrists, then raised her eyes to his.

  “Are you coming willingly, or do I have to carry you?”

  “You couldn’t carry me, even if you were going to try, which you’re not.” Same old Reba. Even when she was thin, she thought she was fat. Even when she was practically hog-tied, she still argued with him.

  “Wanna bet?” He’d had enough of talking. Time for some action. Sam lifted Reba by the waist and stomped over to the bed where he threw her onto a chenille bedspread. Then, quickly, he rolled her up in the bedspread ’til she formed a big chenille tube. There were a lot of muffled words coming out of the tu
be, most of them swear words, he would guess, but one sentence did emerge intact. “What . . . are . . . you . . . doing?”

  He had the answer to that one, and it just came to him in that instant. He would have patted himself on the back for the inspiration, if he’d had a free hand. “You’re going to be my love prisoner.”

  As he slung her over his shoulder and proceeded toward his waiting chariot . . . uh, wheelbarrow, there was only stunned silence coming from Reba. He was a bit stunned himself. First, he skydived to Reba. Then, he joined a Santa Brigade to be with Reba. Finally, he captured Reba.

  He couldn’t wait to see what he would do next.

  “Don’t be mad, Reba.”

  “Oh, I’m mad, all right,” she said, but only half-heartedly. She couldn’t help but be flattered that Sam would have gone to so much trouble for her. The candles. The fire. The clean cabin . . . she could only imagine how much work that had taken. The Christmas decorations. The food. Heck, even her “kidnapping.”

  Just moments ago, he’d dropped her unceremoniously on the floor of his cabin and unrolled her from the bedspread . . . following a bumpy ride in his wheelbarrow. While entubed, she’d rehearsed lots of things she was going to say to him once she was free, all of them starting with an expletive. But now that she was free, she found herself speechless.

  Sam stood before her, shivering. Even though he had on his aviator’s jacket and leather gloves, he was covered from head to toe with at least an inch of snow, including his white eyebrows and eyelashes. The way the storm was hitting full-force now, they would all be snowbound by morning.

  “Take off those wet clothes and sit down in front of the fire before you catch pneumonia,” she snapped, finally regaining the ability to speak.

  He smiled, or tried to, through chattering teeth.

  “Don’t go thinking you’re off the hook. I have lots to say to you, mister, but I don’t relish talking to a corpse.” Well, that certainly sounded tough . . . she hoped. The one thing she didn’t want to sound was easy. Tough, yes. Easy, no. She kept repeating that refrain to herself as Sam pulled a pair of sweat pants and a tee shirt out of his duffle bag near the door and went into the bathroom to change.