Christmas Getaway

by Anne Stuart, Tina Leonard

  Zoe looked at her older sister in astonishment. She looked at her chocolate boxes, wrinkled her small brow, put two of the boxes back on the shelves and headed for the other aisles.

  “We’ll have far too much,” Joe said to Molly, who was piling mangoes into her trolley.

  “Are you kidding? There are three refrigerators in that mausoleum of a holiday house. This is fun.”

  “It’ll cost a fortune.”

  She stopped, a mango in each hand, and eyed him cautiously.

  “So it will. Why didn’t I think of that? But you know, I’m a lawyer. I have a few contacts. When the police were convincing me of Connor’s guilt, they showed me a pile of cross-matched bank statements, including Vincent’s. These children stand to inherit a fortune, and the police are saying it’s almost all profits from illegal activities. Because Vincent’s dead he can’t be charged and the money is likely to remain theirs. The lady on the plane this morning told me this little town is struggling. There was a cyclone came through here last summer. The tourists have been staying away and the locals are doing it tough. We spend some of Vincent’s ill-gotten gains, we spread Christmas fortune further than ourselves and we risk Zoe getting a tummy ache. So what? You want to stop us now?”

  “You’ve thought it through.”

  “What else have I had to do but think? I spent twenty-four hours getting here and days before that being interviewed, interviewed, interviewed. Oh, and humiliated into the bargain. Of course I thunk. I gather you have access to those funds as you’re caring for the children?”

  “I…yes.”

  “And Erica told me once that her brother was loaded. She said you get paid an obscene amount of money for deciding why airplanes crash. But I’ll pay if I have to,” she said, and tossed her mangoes a couple of inches into the air and caught them again. She raised her brows and tossed them again. Tossing her mangoes as if they were hand grenades. “If I have to. If you really are too tight-fisted…”

  “I’ll pay,” he said weakly.

  “Very wise.” She smiled and tossed her mangoes a final time. “And for my trolley, too?”

  “I…yes.”

  “Excellent. I don’t think Zoe has enough chocolate. My trolley needs some, as well. And we need a mass of candy canes for the tree. What’s Christmas without candy canes, is what I want to know.”

  THEY FINISHED SHOPPING. They loaded the wagon—with difficulty. They went to the sports store and purchased cricket paraphernalia.

  The store had run out of Christmas trees. There’d be no more until tomorrow.

  “Excellent. That means we need to shop again tomorrow,” Molly said, and Joe thought what the heck.

  The kids were happy, and he sure as hell wasn’t bored anymore. Things were looking up.

  They returned to the house, exhausted, but Molly insisted the kids unpack their own bags, then help make hot dogs. Joe had put the makings in his trolley.

  The hot dogs were excellent. They ate them while they dangled their legs in the swimming pool. Then, using Joe’s Internet recipe, they made meringues. They ate strawberries while they cooked.

  And they played cricket out by the pool.

  It was dumb but it was great, Joe decided. Sure he still felt trapped. The house was chaotic and the fridges would hardly shut and he felt he had even less control, but Charlie was standing behind the wicket, Lily was holding the bat with fierce determination and Molly was bowling.

  She bowled. Lily hit with ferocity, straight into his stomach. He grabbed the ball involuntarily and managed to hold on.

  “Howzat?” Zoe yelled like a true Australian cricketer, and he grinned and looked at the three-year-old, who’d hardly had her thumb out of her mouth for the entire time she’d been here. She was coated with meringue ingredients and ketchup and unspecific dirt.

  She looked happy.

  He glanced at Molly. She was grinning, too. She was back in her bikini and sarong. She had a smear of meringue on her nose.

  For one crazy moment he had an urgent desire to kiss her.

  How to destroy the Christmas spirit right then and there.

  “We’re all out,” Molly said in satisfaction, showing to a nicety she was catching on fast to cricketing language. “But not without a fight. We’ll be champions in no time.”

  Right. He put away the plan to kiss her as ridiculous.

  The concept stayed, however. As a concept it had definite appeal.

  Cricket over, they trooped inside to inspect the meringues. They were cooked to perfection. Fantastic. Eaten warm, they tasted even more fantastic than they looked. Zoe, who’d eaten hardly anything for days, ate five.

  “Showers and then bed,” Joe decreed as the last meringue disappeared, but Molly shook her head.

  “Showers are too much trouble and it’s hot. Strip down to your undies and I’ll hose you all down on the patio.”

  The kids gazed at her as if she was a sandwich short of a picnic, but she was serious.

  “It’s the rules,” she said, and grinned.

  Without a word they stripped to their knickers. They stood in a line out on the patio, and squealed and giggled while Molly hosed them off.

  “Three towels, Uncle Joe,” she commanded, and he jumped to. Once the kids were towelled dry, he shepherded them through the laundry, where Molly had set out their nightclothes.

  Fifteen minutes later they were snuggled into bed. They’d elected to sleep together in one of the massive guest rooms—one king-sized bed fitted the three of them with room to spare.

  Joe started their traditional bedtime story, but five minutes in their eyes were closed.

  He stared down at them, feeling absurdly touched, absurdly thankful. Absurdly…he didn’t know what.

  He returned to the kitchen. Molly had her sarong wrapped round her middle and was tackling the chaos. Five inexperienced cooks meant wall-to-wall mess.

  “Mop,” she said, and he jumped to again.

  “Are you always this bossy?” he asked as he mopped and she washed down the benches.

  “Always.”

  “This isn’t just diversion therapy for you.”

  “Of course it is. If I’m not diverted, I’ll go nuts.”

  “He really hurt you?” It was a dumb question to ask. Of course Connor had hurt her. But Molly seemed to give it serious consideration.

  “What do you think?” she said softly at last, and set her dishcloth down and turned and faced him. “I’ve had a lovely, controlled, planned life. I’m a partner in a hugely prestigious law firm in Boston. I’ve fought tooth and nail to get myself there. I’ve put everything into my career. I met Connor four years ago. He’s almost as high up in the Boston force as he can get but he wants to get higher. He’s as ambitious as I am. He’s smart, he’s witty, he makes my friends laugh. I got partnership on the strength of my relationship with Connor. Then he decides we need to get married and the whole thing blows up in my face. Again.”

  “Again?” he said cautiously, and her face closed. Once more he saw that flash of pain.

  “Don’t go there.”

  He held up his hands. “I won’t. But you…” He frowned. “You had no idea what he was playing at?”

  “Of course I had no idea. What do you take me for?”

  “I don’t take you for anything,” he said wearily. “It’s just a mess. The cops are saying Vincent and Erica’s deaths were definitely murder.”

  Her expression softened. “Erica. Your sister. I am sorry.”

  “I hardly knew her,” he said. “But that she was murdered… Do you know if they’re definite?”

  “How much do you know?”

  “I got the kids out of the country the night of the wedding. The kids were traumatized. I had a brief conversation with some detective from Boston, simply about who I was and what my links to Vincent were. As soon as they found out I couldn’t stomach the b—my brother-in-law…and hardly saw him, I was allowed to leave. In fact, I was encouraged to leave—they cut through all sor
ts of red tape for me.”

  She nodded. He was still mopping, getting closer to her. She hitched herself up on the bench so he could mop where she’d been standing.

  He mopped under her feet. She was still wearing her sarong. Once again he had that strange feeling of vulnerability that had nothing to do with her age or her career or who she really must be.

  “I’m sorry I threw you into the roses,” he told her.

  “They’re saying it’s likely you saved my life.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still sorry. You were a gorgeous bride.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “The hoops were a bit over-the-top,” he said cautiously.

  “They were. I might go down to my room and read a book.”

  “You brought books?”

  “Of course I brought books.”

  “I thought you’d packed for your honeymoon.”

  “So why wouldn’t I have packed books?”

  “No reason,” he said, and decided to opt for discretion and mop a bit harder.

  “You’re suggesting we weren’t planning a real romantic honeymoon?”

  “Hey, I’m not suggesting anything.”

  “Well, we weren’t,” she admitted, and swung herself off the bench. “Connor would likely have gone jet surfing while I caught up on legal briefs.”

  “Romance comes in all shapes and forms,” he said blandly.

  “It does.”

  “It was a very romantic wedding,” he said cautiously.

  “It was horrible.”

  “I meant, before it went wrong.”

  “It was still horrible.”

  He paused with his mop. She’d said she was going to read a book. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen looking like she didn’t know what to do.

  “How about we hit Vincent’s book again and make one more cocktail before bed?” he said.

  “From Seduction by the Glass.”

  “They’re not all about seduction.”

  “I don’t want…”

  “Neither do I,” he said hastily, though if she kept standing there looking like she was looking… Seduction had a certain appeal.

  Right. When he had three kids in the next bedroom.

  “We have three chaperones,” he said dryly, and she cheered up.

  “So we have.”

  “So you’d like a cocktail?”

  “Out by the pool?”

  “You can even bring your legal briefs if you want.”

  “I’ve given up legal briefs,” she said sourly. “I’ve decided I make an appalling lawyer. How can I tell right or wrong when I agreed to marry a murderer?”

  “He might not be a murderer”

  “And I might not be a half-wit. There’s hope for everyone.” She sighed. “Innocent until proven guilty. How would I know? Meanwhile bring on your Seduction by the Glass. I suspect it’ll help me sleep and I feel like sleeping for a very long time.”

  SHE DIDN’T SLEEP.

  She lay on an almost obscenely comfortable chaise out by the pool. She read Seduction by the Glass with legal thoroughness. She chose Caribbean Mama and then watched in disquiet as Joe made it for her and then made something called Parson’s Choice for himself.

  “It’s nonalcoholic,” she objected.

  “One of us has to stay sober.” He handed her the Caribbean Mama and sank down on the neighboring chaise with his Parson’s Choice.

  All of a sudden he felt too close. The situation felt too familiar.

  It felt dangerous.

  She was still in her sarong. He was fully clothed in his chinos and long-sleeved shirt…and boots, even. Yeah, his shirt had the first three buttons open, and yeah, his sleeves were rolled up, but he was drinking a nonalcoholic cocktail and she…wasn’t.

  “Zoe’s having nightmares,” he explained. “I can’t afford to sleep deeply, which is what I do if I have more than a couple of drinks in the day.”

  “So sobriety is the name of the night.”

  “Not for you. You’re a jilted bride,” he told her. “Jilted brides don’t have to do sobriety.”

  “I’ll have this one then,” she conceded, and took a sip and thought about it. “Or maybe one and a half.”

  He laughed.

  She relaxed, lying back on the cushions and staring up at the stars glimmering through the canopy of palm trees.

  This was a really romantic setting, she thought. Probably more romantic even than Paradise Island Honeymoon Resort.

  “Where do you reckon Connor might be right now?” Joe asked, and she flinched. For almost a minute she’d forgotten about Connor.

  “Cuba?” she said cautiously.

  “How much money does he have?”

  “Enough.”

  “He’s rich?”

  “There’s family money.”

  “It’d take a lot,” he said. “To stay on the run in Cuba, or anywhere else. We’re assuming he doesn’t have the diamonds.”

  “He probably does have the diamonds.” She closed her eyes. “Let’s not talk about Connor.”

  “Let’s not,” he said easily, and closed his eyes, as well.

  The situation here wasn’t all that bad, she decided.

  Not bad at all.

  She hadn’t slept too well the past few nights. She was also jet-lagged. Her body clock had her somewhere around eleven o’clock in the morning.

  She should be in bed now, but the combination of fatigue, alcohol, the warm sea air, the absolute comfort of the chaise…and the presence of Joe was producing a reaction that was almost euphoric. She felt safe. It was a weird word. She hadn’t been aware that she’d felt threatened. But maybe she had.

  The shock that Connor could be capable of killing his cousin had her feeling sick and shattered. She hadn’t been able to come to terms with it. But here, on this night, with this man, she felt as if Connor was nothing more than a vague shadow to be dismissed like Zoe’s nightmares.

  “Tell me about yourself?” she said, and she knew it was simply the soothing pleasure of having him talk to her that she wanted. But when he answered, she found she was interested.

  “I play with airplanes.”

  “Erica told me that. Tell me how.”

  “I wait ’til they crash and then I find out why they crashed.”

  “You’re an investigator.”

  “You might call me that.”

  “So you travel,” she said, and she was aware of a tiny stab of disappointment. That was weird, too. What was there in what he said to produce disappointment?

  “Not so much as you might think,” he told her. “We work with the Australian Aviation authorities and we have a pretty clean record. Yes, there are crashes, and when there are, I usually go on site for a bit. But there’s mostly not a lot I can do on site. What I do is a preliminary, thorough examination, order a thousand pictures from every angle and then organize as many bits of the plane as we can retrieve to be brought back to a hangar in Sydney. Then we spend anywhere up to six months figuring out what went wrong.”

  “Like the pilot had been drinking Caribbean Mamas.”

  He grinned. She liked it when he grinned, she thought. It was a gentle smile that started in his eyes and sort of lit up his face. He had lines at the corner of his eyes that said he smiled a lot.

  These kids could have done worse in the uncle stakes. She wouldn’t mind him for an uncle herself.

  Or something else…

  What? She gave herself a fast mental swipe. She’d stick to one Caribbean Mama. One and only one.

  “Pilot error’s not my bag,” he told her. “Once we establish pilot error I’m pretty much out of there. It’s plane failure I’m interested in. Metal fatigue. Failure of backup systems to come into play.”

  “Technical stuff.”

  “I guess.”

  “So you’re clever,” she said, and listened to her words and decided she was slurring them. She was tired. She should put her drink down. But it was really nice. The night was really
nice.

  Joe was really nice.

  “Maybe,” he said cautiously.

  “Where did you go to school?” she asked.

  “Sydney.”

  “University?”

  “Sydney, too. And then the States.”

  “But you were a foster kid.”

  “I had a pretty amazing foster mother,” he said. “Ruby. She got her hands on me when I was twelve, and once she realized what I was capable of and what I wanted she moved heaven and earth to get me there.”

  “She sounds lovely. Why didn’t she care for Erica?”

  “She wasn’t allowed to. We went into a comparatively wealthy foster home when I was six and Erica was eight. They liked Erica but they didn’t like me. I got moved on. Erica stayed put until she met Vincent.”

  “I guess that really hurt,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” He said it flatly, without inflection, and she winced. She’d stepped on a nerve, then.

  “So where’s Ruby now?” she asked. “Will she help take on these kids?”

  “I’d never ask it of her.”

  “She’s too old?”

  “She’s too kind.”

  “That’s a bit dumb.”

  “Maybe, but that’s the way it is.”

  “So what will you do with them?”

  “I don’t know,” he said heavily.

  “Get a nanny?”

  “No! Yes.” He raked his hair. “Hell, kids have survived with nannies before.”

  “You’re looking at one,” she said, striving to keep her voice light.

  He stared across at her in the moonlight. As if he was trying to see deeper than was possible. She stirred, uncomfortably. He unsettled her, this man. She wasn’t sure why. He was just so…different.

  “What about you?” he demanded suddenly, sounding angry.

  “What about me?”

  “You say you were brought up with nannies.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re normal.”

  “I think I am.”

  “But you’re marrying Connor.”

  “I’m not marrying Connor,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster.

  “But you would have.”

  “Thankfully, I didn’t.”