The Christmas Feast

by Peggy Webb

  “Great…and all gone.” She pushed her bangs off her forehead like a little girl. He wanted to hug her.

  “Good,” he said, then tore himself loose from her spell and caught Birdie in a bear hug.

  “Jacky! Shame on you for missing all the fun. Jolie and I have been dancing.”

  “So I see.” He glanced around the room for the fruit basket he’d sent earlier in the week. Her Christmas tree was still up, the faux bird’s nests were still scattered about the room, but the basket was nowhere in sight. Since she seemed to be in good mind, he asked, “Did you get the fruit basket I sent?”

  “That poor Mr. Williams down the hall doesn’t have a soul to his name. I told him, You take this. I’ve got my birds, and I’ve got my friends.”

  “I’ll send you another.”

  Birdie grinned. “I bet he’ll like that one, too.”

  “Lance, I have something to show you.” Jolie pulled a yellowed envelope out of an ancient copy of Gone With the Wind. Inside was a newspaper account of a train wreck that had killed Jack Garcy and his son, Jack, Jr., more than thirty years ago. They were survived by Burdine Garcy.

  “She asked me to read to her, then dug this book out from the bottom of her closet. So now we know.”

  Birdie put her hand on Lance’s arm anxiously. “Jacky?”

  “It’s all right.” He put his arms around her. “You can call me Jacky. I’ll be your son.”

  Jolie teared up as she drifted toward the window, trailing a cloud of perfume that stole his reason. “Oh, no,” she said. “Just look out there. I’d better head back before the weather gets any worse.”

  “The roads are already too bad to drive home. There’s a motel less than a mile away. We’ll take your car. I’ll drive.”

  “But I can’t…we can’t....”

  “Separate rooms, Jolie.”

  They got separate rooms, much to Jolie’s relief. Who was she kidding? Much to her disappointment was more like it.

  It was only nine o’clock, and she’d had to eat in the dining room all by herself because Lance had been on the road all day and said he would order room service. Now she was sitting here looking at four walls, with nothing on television but reruns of the Golden Girls, and what was she supposed to do? Chew her fingernails down to the quick? Count the fringe on the tacky shag carpet? Die of unrequited love?

  The world’s most desirable man was just beyond the connecting door and she couldn’t think of a single reason to knock.

  Hi, do you want to put your arms around me and kiss me till I swoon? Actually, she wanted more.

  Hello, would you like to come into my bed and help me muss the covers? That was more like it, but didn’t most men revel in the chase?

  Hi, do you want to come in and play with me? Okay, she was down to the nitty-gritty now, but he hadn’t indicated in any way that she still lit his fire…if she ever had.

  Hi, do you want to come in and play cards?

  That might fly. Believe it or not, she had a deck in her purse, mostly to have at the laundromat while she waited for her clothes to dry, but more often than not to while away evenings in her apartment while Connie and every other red-blooded girl in America had fun with a significant other.

  Jolie jumped off the bed, then smoothed the covers so Lance wouldn’t think she had a devious agenda. She rummaged in her purse until she found an old lipstick that would probably turn orange on her. It would have to do. Anything was better than pale and unprepared to dazzle.

  She knocked on his door, and when he immediately said, “Yes?” she nearly jumped out of her skin. Had he been standing right on the other side? Had he been waiting for her to knock? Thinking about knocking himself?

  The connecting door swung wide, and there he was, the man who knocked her socks off.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  Jolie wanted to stamp her foot. Why was it, every time he saw her, he wanted to fix her problem? Why couldn’t she be the kind of woman who left a man speechless with wonder and desire?

  “Do you want to play cards?” From the look on his face, you’d think she had just invited him to chop wood on the back forty. She inched away like one of those worms she used to find on the sidewalk in the hot summertime after a rain. “You probably don’t even play cards…how silly of me…I’ll just…” She waved her hand aimlessly toward the television. “…watch a rerun of I Love Lucy or something.”

  “Jolie…I’d love to play cards with you.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes.” He came through the door and she was amazed at how much space he took. Suddenly there was nowhere she could turn without bumping into some delectable-looking part of him.

  “But I warn you,” he added. “I play to win.”

  “You’ve got a tough battle ahead, mister. So do I.”

  “Good. Make it hard for me.”

  Oh, my Lord. Naturally, he hadn’t meant that the way she took it. She’d better get her mind settled on a higher plane before she embarrassed herself by ripping off her clothes and yelling, “Take me, I’m yours.”

  “I’ll just, um, get the, uh…” She started to get the cards, but first she had to get past him because her purse had spitefully migrated to the far corner of the room just to test her willpower.

  Her arm brushed his in passing and the electric shock temporarily paralyzed her. He didn’t make matters a bit easier because he was looking at her as if she were a tasty morsel he planned to nibble on.

  Lordy, when had that magical transformation taken place? And why?

  It must be her lipstick. That was it. He wasn’t used to seeing her with painted lips. A little cosmetic enhancement probably added the right touch of pizzazz to rev his motor and set him to salivating.

  “Excuse me,” she said, then nearly fainted when he leaned down and put his index finger on her lips.

  “You have a smear of lipstick…right there.”

  Did she want to crawl in a hole, or what?

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She fled to the far corner of the room and spent three times longer than necessary searching her purse for the deck of cards and going into a near panic. Suddenly, she realized that the no-frills motel offered only the rudiments of comfort—a bed, a chair, a cheap bedside table and a television swung from the ceiling on one of those contraptions they used in hospitals.

  There was only one place to play games, cards or otherwise—the bed. Jolie stood with her back to him, trying to keep her naughty thoughts to herself. She wasn’t much of an actress. Shoot, she wasn’t an actress at all. The minute she turned around he’d know exactly what she was thinking.

  “Jolie? Is anything wrong?”

  Caught. She’d have to turn around sometime this century.

  “Oh, yes. I just realized we don’t have any place to play.”

  Did her glee show? She couldn’t tell by looking at him; his face was a mask.

  “We’ll play on the bed.”

  If she fainted, would that be a sure sign he drove her crazy, wild with love? Oh, Lordy. She was crazy about this man. A wicked little fairy had decided to complicate her life by sprinkling I-want-a-white-satin-gown-and-babies-and-a-house-with-a-mortgage dust when she wasn’t looking.

  The only problem was all those fantasies required a man who loved you right back, and if she thought the one standing in her motel room was going to whisk her off to the chapel of love, she was sadly mistaken.

  When In Doubt, Be Bold.

  “Okay.” She flopped onto the bed as if she had never thought of it as a gateway to paradise. “Let’s play. I’ll shuffle.”

  She tried to concentrate on the feel of cards in her hands, the whirring sound they made. Instead she was vividly aware of Lance sitting on the bed. Her breath sawed through her lungs, her skin became sensitized and goose pimply, and heat stung every part of her body.

  “Cut.” She handed the cards to him, and even the smallest touch—his fingers brushing her hand—h
eightened the sensations that swept through her.

  If she didn’t get her mind on the game, she was going down in flaming defeat, flaming being the operative word. Trying to focus, she caught her tongue between her teeth. A sudden electric silence forced her to look at him.

  He sizzled with pure lust. Had somebody else come into the room while she wasn’t looking? Was a Playboy centerfold standing behind her?

  “Please, Jolie. Don’t do that.”

  His voice was raw with desire. She could hardly breathe.

  “Do what?”

  “That thing you do with your tongue.”

  “Oh…sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologize. It’s not you. It’s me.”

  Caught in a web of desire, they stared at each other, the cards forgotten on the bed. Sounds magnified—their breathing, the drip of a leaky faucet in the bathroom, the sleet hitting the window outside. Thoughts outgrew their minds and paraded around the room, shouting for attention.

  I want you. I need you. Nothing matters except the passion we can’t contain.

  “Damn it.” Lance raked the cards off the bed and they scattered like frightened children. “I can’t do this.”

  Excited beyond anything she’d ever known, she licked her lips. “Do what?” she whispered.

  “Be alone in this bedroom with you.”

  “It’s okay.” She touched his hand, and he jerked back as if he’d been gut-punched.

  “No. I have nothing to offer. All I can do is take.”

  A haunted, driven man looked at her, conflicted by dark mysteries and passion.

  If I’ve ever been wise, let it be now.

  Slowly she got off the bed and pulled her sweater over her head. She heard his sharp intake of breath. He was watching her, as still and imposing as a mountain. Without taking her eyes off his, she unzipped her jeans and let them slide to the floor.

  “Jolie…”

  “Shh. Don’t say anything.” She moved toward the bed with a quiet, unstudied grace that surprised her. Here she was, involved in the most important moment of her life, and she didn’t feel the least uncertainty, the least inhibited. She was a woman prepared, a smart woman with built-in protection for once-in-a-lifetime moments such as this.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in the soft contours of her belly. Weaving her fingers through his hair, she leaned into him, crooning. Not words, really, but a heart song that released courage and comfort. For him. For her. For the two of them together.

  They stayed that way for a small eternity, his breath warm on her skin and her heart beating desperately against her rib cage. Jolie didn’t dare breathe for fear this wonder would vanish. Tight with tension, edgy with passion, she forced herself to patience, willed herself to a stillness that accepted whatever would come.

  She felt the change in him, the unleashing of a force so powerful that she was borne backward toward the bed, down to the sheets, where he hovered over her like a dark angel. Holding her captive with a piercing stare, he stripped aside his clothes and tossed them on the floor.

  He was wonderfully and gloriously made—his chest sculpted and smooth, his belly lean and hard, his legs fine and powerful. Under normal circumstances she might have said, “You are amazing,” but these were not ordinary circumstances. Lancelot was no ordinary man.

  He was a phoenix risen from the ashes of a guarded and secret place. He was a ticking bomb set to explode, and God help her, she didn’t want it to happen until she knew the pleasures of his flesh joined with hers.

  Call her selfish. Call her practical. But she remained silent against the pillows, watching and waiting.

  She felt the heat of his burning eyes all the way to her bones. A deep shudder shook him, and he closed his eyes.

  Oh, please don’t let him change his mind.

  Without a word he parted her thighs and slid deep inside. Suddenly, there was paradise. She wanted to sing. She wanted to shout. But most of all she wanted to keep holding the silent, intense man who made love to her as if there were no tomorrow.

  They were tireless together, insatiable. As the rain beat against the window they created magic time and again, giving and receiving in a deep silence that was almost spiritual.

  I love you, I love you.

  The words played continuously through her mind, but she kept her secret. This was not the right time for revelations of the heart.

  Would there ever be a time?

  Jolie didn’t know. All she knew was that she would take whatever Lance offered, because not to have him at all would be unthinkable.

  Chapter 17

  Lance blocked everything out of his mind except the moment and the woman who flowed beneath him like a river. He rode the amazing currents, drowned in them, emerged reborn, only to drown again.

  Never had he known a woman like Jolie. Never had he allowed a woman to touch his heart, his soul. Never had he loved. He loved her and he needed her. It was that simple, that scary.

  His need and her passion drove him to his limits and beyond. Somehow he found the strength and the stamina of an eighteen-year-old.

  It was almost dawn by the time he left her bed. Too full to speak, he brushed her damp hair back from her face, kissed her softly on the lips, then went through the connecting door without a word.

  What was there to say? “I can’t make promises” said it all. Beyond that he could only complicate matters more.

  Lance fell into his bed too tired to think. Grateful for that small respite from his conscience, he slept deeply for five hours.

  When he woke up he padded to the window still naked, and saw water dripping from the eaves. The capricious Mississippi weather had warmed enough to start a meltdown of the ice it had dumped across the unsuspecting land the night before.

  He went to the connecting door, but didn’t hear any signs of movement from Jolie’s side. Let her sleep. The roads were passable now, but there was no hurry.

  He called Elizabeth on his cell phone to tell her they would be late getting to O’Banyon Manor.

  “Where are you, Lance?”

  He told her, giving only the bare essentials and leaving out the most important parts.

  “You really care for Kat, don’t you, Lance?”

  More than you’ll ever know.

  “She’s a fine woman, Elizabeth. You’re lucky to have her for a sister.”

  “I know. Listen, I have plenty of preproduction chores to do, and several other interviews I can slide into your slot. Take your time over there. Two or three days if you like.”

  One more night like last night and he would never leave Jolie’s side.

  “The weather’s clearing. We’ll be home tonight,” he told her, and she agreed.

  Thank God she didn’t second-guess him and dish out advice. He felt privileged to count her as his friend.

  After he’d hung up, he listened at the door once more. Hearing only echoing silence, he lay down, not to sleep but merely to rest his eyes.

  There was a certain way a woman felt after being thoroughly loved—languorous and full of delicious secrets, satisfied to the bone and yet eager for the touch that would drive her wild again.

  Smiling, Jolie pulled the covers up to her chin and hummed. Not a tune, really. Merely several happy notes strung together in a breathy sort of way.

  It was still gray and gloomy outside. Water ran down the windowpane, which meant the temperature was rising. But if weather patterns held, it would be afternoon before the roads cleared completely.

  Jolie glanced at the connecting door. Would Lance come through?

  Probably not. Last night would never have happened if she hadn’t been bold. Somehow she’d found a crack in the fortress that surrounded him, but that didn’t mean the walls had come tumbling down. He was probably on the other side of the door shoring up his weak spots.

  Jolie punched her pillow and tried to go back to sleep, but she was too wound up. She could put on her clothes and get breakfast at the motel�
��s modest food bar, but she didn’t really want food. She wanted Lance.

  This was her last chance.

  The truth blazed across her mind, and she shoved back the covers. After today there would be no more chance meetings and gift-from-the-gods icy roads. Once she and Lance were back at O’Banyon Manor, he would keep out of her path. Then, after Elizabeth finished filming, Jolie might never see him again.

  So, what did she have to lose?

  She didn’t even bother with clothes; she simply eased the door open, then slipped into the darkened room where he lay sleeping, the curtains drawn and the covers kicked back.

  Jolie climbed in beside him and pulled the sheet around his chilled body. He came instantly awake.

  “Jolie?”

  “Shh. Let me.” She slid under the sheet, and whatever resistance she felt in him vanished immediately. He hauled her up and made love to her with the same silent intensity he’d used the night before.

  She longed for him to speak. She longed to hear I love you, I adore you, you are precious to me, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

  Pipe dreams. She might as well wish for the moon. And yet....

  His breath fanned warm across her cheek and in unguarded moments he buried his face in her hair and whispered her name. The way he said it was like a prayer, a song, a promise.

  But he’d said there would be no promises. Jolie had entered into this overnight affair with her eyes wide-open. When she left his bed she would not be the same woman. She would never be the same again. But neither would she be disillusioned.

  There was always hope, wasn’t there?

  When they finally fell across the bed, sated, their skin warm to the touch, sweat dripping off their bodies in spite of the chill outside, Jolie lifted herself on her elbows.

  “I understand what you told me last night, Lance, and I want you to know I’m okay with it.” She got off the bed, gathered the sheet around her, toga-style, then stood looking down at him, wishing for what she couldn’t have.

  “Someday, somewhere my prince will come and carry me off to live happily ever after. If the Fates are kind, it will be you.”