What Happens at Christmas

by Evonne Wareham

  She looked startled. ‘You do that, just make it up – I thought I read somewhere you research everything?’

  ‘I try, but in this case the reality showed that I couldn’t do it, and if I couldn’t do it, then the ordinary Joe who was supposed to be my hero couldn’t do it either, so I created somewhere and someone that could.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was looking at the fire again, thoughtful. The flicker of the flame played over her face. Her mouth. Something in his gut, and not just his gut, tightened as he imagined the taste. He wanted to kiss her. ‘Lori—’

  ‘Where—’ Their voices clashed. ‘Sorry what were you going to say?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ It was a very bad idea, anyway. ‘You go ahead.’

  ‘I was just going to ask where you were going next?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just handed in one book – the one with the train.’ He stopped. Normally there was another idea already circling, waiting for its landing slot, but this time there was nothing. He’d even been wondering about taking a holiday. ‘Maybe the next one will be set in the Brecon Beacons.’

  ‘In a snowstorm?’ She was laughing. ‘I suppose your hero would have to build himself an igloo or something.’

  ‘Probably.’

  She was curled up in her chair, chin on hand, lit by the warm light of the fire. A log crumbled and fell, in a shower of sparks. Drew leaned into his chair, steepling his fingers, watching the flames. Watching her. They really didn’t need to talk, but some imp kept his tongue moving. ‘Are you planning another of your stories?’

  ‘What?’ Her head came up, eyes startled.

  ‘Misty’s fairytales?’

  ‘Oh, yes. No. Really, I’m just looking at the fire. Ideas drift in and out.’

  He remembered yesterday that she’d been writing in a notebook. ‘It was a good story,’ he offered encouragingly.

  ‘Thank you.’ The words were clipped and formal. Somehow he had put a foot wrong somewhere. He waited in silence and saw her relax. The tension in his own shoulders eased too.

  They sat quietly, looking into the firelight. It felt strange, even a little disorientating. The after-effects of what the papers would probably call ‘his ordeal’? Not that any papers were going to get hold of the details, if he could help it.

  A wave of cold washed over him, despite the warmth of the fire. The hut had been all too real. Somehow it made the research trips, however dangerous and risky in themselves, seem kind of shallow. Playing around with big boys’ toys, big boys’ adventures. Yes, but it does put food on the table.

  He looked up, away from the flames, as Lori uncurled herself from her chair and walked over to the kitchen. ‘I just remembered.’ She came back holding a box. ‘Chocolates.’ She put the box down on the low table between the chairs and they rummaged happily amongst the wrappings. ‘Now this is Christmas.’ Lori’s eyes glittered as she popped the cherry liqueur into her mouth.

  No, this is Christmas. A warm quiet house, a child sleeping upstairs, a beautiful woman with eyes dancing in the firelight.

  And none of it is yours.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Boxing Day, Night

  They’d finished the wine and half the chocolates and Lori had made more coffee and Drew wanted, quite desperately, to kiss her. Not going to happen. He couldn’t start something. Not now. Not when you don’t know how any of this is going to play out.

  Didn’t stop the wanting though.

  The drip of water off the roof had become a steady rush. Drew opened one of the French doors as Lori turned off lights and checked the other doors behind him. He leaned out, careful to avoid falling water. The air was much warmer and scented with wet vegetation. Tomorrow, roads would be clear. He pulled the door shut and fastened the security bolts.

  ‘All done.’ Lori set the alarm, then moved towards the lighted stairs. Drew followed her.

  ‘Lori.’ What made him say her name, at that exact moment, he didn’t know. He had a half impression that she was already turning, before he’d said it. She was a stair higher than he was, which brought her face on a level with his. Her mouth. For a second he hesitated, then he leaned forward very gently, giving her space if she wanted to take it.

  Her mouth was sweet, tasting of chocolate and wine and coffee and a spark of heat, against his tongue, that wasn’t sweet at all.

  She was there, coming to meet him, not pushing him away.

  He slid his hand up under her hair, holding her head steady to deepen the kiss. Her palms flattened against his chest, not entirely surrendering herself to him.

  But she was still kissing him.

  Heat and sweetness and desire thrummed through him.

  When he finally let go, sealing the kiss with a swift brush of his lips across hers, he drew his head back, looking into her eyes. This close he could see the flecks in the grey, dark striations radiating from the wide dark pupils. ‘Lori …’ He barely recognised his own voice.

  ‘No.’ She moved her hand and put it to his mouth. ‘No more.’ For a second she tipped her head close, resting her forehead against his. Then she pulled back and was gone, the muffled ‘goodnight’ floating behind her.

  Drew stood still, looking up until she disappeared into the bathroom. His body was tingling, every sense on full alert. He’d just kissed Lori France and he wanted urgently to do it again.

  And there is no way in hell that is going to happen.

  What part of ‘Not My Type’ don’t you understand?

  Lori lay in bed, in the darkness, listening to the night, the silence broken only by the melting snow dripping from the roof and feline snores from somewhere at her feet, where Griff had settled to sleep.

  She’d just kissed Drew Vitruvius. And she’d enjoyed it. And she rather wanted to do it again.

  And the whole thing was pretty much a mess, because he was so not the type of man she was attracted to, except that it seemed that she was, and he was leaving in the morning anyway, and if Misty hadn’t been in the house she had a lowering feeling that she might have ended up in his bed, or he in hers, and she really didn’t do casual hook-ups.

  She turned over, restlessly, to lie on her side. Griff put his head up and grumbled at the disturbance. ‘This is my bed,’ she reminded him in a pointed whisper. Griff gave her the death stare and put his head down again.

  Wanting Drew Vitruvius was wrong. She had to convince herself of that. But she’d figured him all wrong. On the basis of the scraps she’d read, she’d assumed he was one kind of man, and he’d turned out to be quite another. Even tonight, the tales of his adventures hadn’t been the macho boasting she would have expected. They’d been told, often against himself, with a sense of wonder and an understated, self-deprecating humour. He was an intelligent, healthy, well-built male with a nice body and a lovely mouth. It was perfectly reasonable to want him in her bed.

  She was attracted to the man, not the celebrity, and they had spent two days together, with Misty, somehow making a sort of unit. Like a family.

  But he was going back to his life and she was going back to hers and in his world someone appeared to be trying to kill him. The sharp pain sliced into her with a force that made her heart stutter. The thought of him hurt … Dead …

  She gritted her teeth and dragged her mind away from the images that were projecting inside her head. That was another downside of being a writer – too easy to imagine the ‘what ifs’ and catastrophise about them.

  And if anything told her that she shouldn’t get involved with Drew Vitruvius, that was it. She had a normal ordinary life – no killers, scorpions or dangerous mountains in it, and she didn’t need a man who had them in his. Enough. She rolled over, shook up her pillow, and settled down to sleep.

  Things might look different in the morning.

  Chapter Thirty

  27 December, Morning

  Misty was a welcome barrier between them the next morning, chatting to both of them indiscriminately, with her usual bright-eyed bounce, tantrum f
orgotten. There was a moment of sadness when she looked out of the window at the forlorn stump of snow that had yesterday been the snowman, but the task of choosing the correct collar for Snowball to wear for the day soon diverted her.

  Drew seemed distracted, buried in his own thoughts as he inhaled a mug of coffee.

  Lori put her phone down beside him on the kitchen counter. ‘If you go up the hill you can probably get a signal – to ring wherever you need to ring,’ she offered quietly. ‘Someone to fetch you? Better than hitching.’

  ‘No.’ The unexpected refusal had her heart skipping for a moment, but his frown didn’t suggest that he’d decided to stay for some reason. ‘I don’t want to risk any connection to you and Misty. There’s someone who will help me, but apart from him, once I’m away from here, I won’t be telling anyone about any of this.’ He looked around the barn, then focused on her face again. ‘Not even the police.’ He grasped her hand. ‘You won’t be telling anyone either.’ It was halfway between a question and confirmation.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ She saw the movement of his shoulders as some of the tension relaxed.

  ‘Please.’ He gave a clipped nod of acknowledgement. ‘I don’t want either of you to be caught up in this. It’s my problem, not yours.’

  She could see from the look in his eyes that his mind was made up. No point in arguing. And really, why would you want to? This is an interlude. Once he’s gone, it’s over. Back to real life. Where you belong.

  She looked over at Misty, playing on the rug with Griff and Snowball. ‘I can’t promise that Misty won’t chatter.’

  ‘Once I’m gone she’ll probably forget.’ He was very still, with something that she couldn’t read in his expression. There was a long beat before he spoke. ‘Is there a phone box between here and the hut that I can reach on foot? Somewhere not too public?’

  ‘There’s a box at the crossroads, about a mile down the road.’

  ‘That will do.’ He gave her a strained smile. ‘If you can let me have some change for the phone?’

  ‘Of course.’ She picked up her mobile and slipped it back into her pocket. ‘After breakfast.’

  The road was clear and the low winter sun shone fitfully. Drew hiked along the grass verge, avoiding patches close to the hedge, where the snow was still banked up. He had the hood of the old waterproof pulled down to cover his face. It was very quiet. Not even a passing car. He dug his hands into the pockets of the coat, and kept walking.

  He could just keep walking. Walk until he hit a main road and traffic, where he could hitch a ride. As he’d intended before the snow intervened. But that was when his one idea was to get away as fast as possible. To put as much distance as he could between him and his rescuers, in case the threat was still out there. It might still be out there. That was a consideration. But now he had another objective. Things had shifted, over those two snow-bound days.

  You kissed Lori France.

  He ground his teeth. His mind had to be focused on the job in hand, not on regrets and hopes inside his head.

  He didn’t need the involvement of passing strangers, offering lifts, for what he was about to do.

  A few days ago Lori was a stranger.

  His plan now, such as it was, hinged on the phone call he was about to make. He was going straight to the help he knew would be offered. This call, from a public box, was the first part of the plan.

  No connection to Lori or the barn.

  The need to protect Lori and Misty had begun on Christmas Eve, when he hadn’t known if he was bringing danger into their lives. And it hadn’t stopped. He didn’t quite know where this urgent need to keep them away from the mess he was in was coming from …

  Or maybe you do? Because you couldn’t help them …

  He pushed the chilling whisper aside and concentrated on where he was putting his feet whilst keeping an eye on his surroundings. Once he got away from here there was no reason for any physical threat to Lori. She would simply be a woman who had helped him. That passing stranger. Of no interest to anyone who wished him harm. But that simple act would put her in the spotlight from the press and probably from the police too. At best there would be questions and interviews … and if investigations dragged on, maybe for months …

  So no one was going to know. He’d managed to get free this morning, and made his way to this phone box to call on a friend for help. That was his story.

  You tell lies for a living.

  A shudder ran through him. The secret of an effective lie was to keep as close to the truth as possible, which was why he was using this call box. It was a deception he’d rather not be practising, and a risk, but he was going to do it, even if he didn’t really know why. He pushed the whisper away, before it could draw breath in his head. The time at the barn had been precious. He wasn’t going to taint it.

  He was reaching the crossroads. He could see the call box, alongside a bus stop sign that leaned drunkenly over a wooden seat. Both the seat and the box were empty. He checked the timetable fastened to the sagging post. The next bus wasn’t due for over an hour.

  Turning slowly he scanned the surroundings. No one in sight. Just sheep in a field and a pair of magpies quarrelling in the hedge.

  Abruptly there was the sound of a car approaching. Drew moved quickly back to the bus stop as if he was studying the timetable, the hood shading his face and his heart thumping against his ribs.

  Was the car slowing? In country areas good neighbours sometimes offered lifts. No. Not now. Not when he’d made up his mind on another plan entirely.

  Or … the spike of fear made him dizzy. Had he walked back into the world and straight into the arms of …?

  The car sped past.

  When the noise of the engine had died away completely, Drew took a deep breath and ducked into the booth.

  He shoved the hood of the coat back a little, running his eyes down the instructions for making a call that were printed on the wall. Stacking the coins Lori had dug out from her purse in a neat column, he lifted the receiver. There was a dial tone.

  He took a deep breath, with a disjointed prayer under it. ‘Please let him be there.’

  He’d first met Devlin out running. They’d become friends pounding over Albert Bridge and round Battersea Park together, when they were both in London – as far as Devlin – no first name – had friends. Awesomely cool, the man was ice, except around his wife Kaz and small step-daughter Jamie. When one of Drew’s dedicated fans had begun to wander into stalker territory, Devlin had provided some appropriate security. The fan/stalker had drifted away, with no harm done. If Devlin was at home now, he’d help. If he wasn’t at home – Drew had no idea who he’d call. At Devlin’s insistence he’d memorised his phone number at the time of the stalker incident – Devlin had some sort of an issue with phone numbers going back to the time of a former business partner.

  He dialled it now, with hands that shook slightly.

  ‘Devlin?’ Thank you, God. ‘Yes, it’s me. I know … Trouble, as you might have guessed. Bad. Look, I’m in Wales. Yeah, the kidnapping was rigged, someone made it real … Thought you might … Can you square it with your police contacts so that they ease back on the search? … not straight away … No, I need to find out for myself who engineered this. Will you – thanks. I owe you. Yeah, I know.’

  Heart a lot lighter, Drew cupped the receiver to his ear with both hands, looking at the roads around the call box.

  There was no one in sight, in cars or on foot.

  ‘Just dumped. With attitude … Money, phone, watch, keys – everything. I had some help, but I don’t want them involved any more. Not until this is sorted. Can you arrange to pick me up?’ He explained the location of the barn carefully. ‘Terrain? Yes – there are flat fields right next to it … I definitely owe you one. No – at least – can you get into my place and get me a coat? There’s a parka hanging on the door in the bedroom. And my boots?’ Drew looked down at his leather lace-ups, distinctly sorry for them
selves after days of hard wear in trying conditions. ‘Under the radar, yes.’ He moved his hand and the chain at his wrist clanked against the phone. ‘And if you’ve got a bolt cutter handy, you might bring that too.’

  Misty lifted her head from her painting. ‘Aeroplane.’ She slipped off her chair and darted over to the window.

  ‘It’s too loud.’ Lori followed her over. ‘It’s a helicopter. Police, or the air ambulance?’

  Drew met her eyes, over Misty’s head. ‘I think it’s my ride.’

  By the time Lori and Misty had scrambled out of the back door, the helicopter was hovering over the open field beside the barn. Lori grabbed her niece by the shoulders, holding her against her legs, afraid that she might run towards the machine as it settled gently onto the ground. She couldn’t see much of the man at the controls – a headset and dark glasses obscured some of his face, but the chin looked determined and capable.

  ‘Your friend?’ For a second a thrill of fear spilled through her. Drew had been ambushed once …

  ‘Yes.’ Drew was standing beside her. ‘Well … I … Thank you.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’ Lori ducked her head, pulling at one of Misty’s tangled curls. She was proud of how firm her voice sounded. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ he echoed. As he started to walk across the field towards the helicopter, she took a last lingering look. Surprise put a small hitch in her breath. He was wearing the clothes he’d had on in the hut, and carrying the suit jacket. He must have changed quickly, while she and Misty were watching the landing. His silhouette was tall and dark against the low winter sun and there was an uncomfortable lump constricting Lori’s throat. Just short of the waiting machine, he stopped. Her heart gave a strange, uneven bounce. He turned, running back across the field.

  His mouth was cool and brief against hers. ‘I have to go.’ He ruffled Misty’s hair and then he was running again, back to his ride, pulling himself aboard. Lori saw the pilot lean towards him, as if asking a question. Drew shook his head, dragging the door closed.