THE NIGHTS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

by Vicky Lewis Thompson

  But Terri had said that he was understanding and very romantic. In that case, she wouldn't have to know everything. He would know everything, just like the men in the novels she loved.

  Yet if she managed to start an affair with Greg, who had become a legend in her apartment building, and she still turned out to be an anal-retentive ice queen, what then? She'd probably never date again. She'd channel all her energies into her career, become the best financial analyst in Chicago, make piles of money and live alone in some opulent penthouse with her twenty-nine cats. Rich but pathetic.

  If there was the slightest chance she'd blow it with Greg, she'd be far better off blundering along as she'd been doing. The situation reminded her of when she'd had a funky Honda Civic with lots of miles on it. She'd loved that car, but one day it wouldn't go. A boisterous jock from high school, somebody much like Jared, had talked her into letting him give her a jump. He must have done something wrong, because he'd burned out the electrical system.

  Getting involved with Greg was a jump start that might blow out her entire electrical system, and she'd have to be towed in, just like that Honda. She was already feeling road-weary after two nights at the gym with Terri. In her present condition she probably wouldn't be able to have sex without pulling a muscle, anyway.

  So why, with all those considerations, was she staring at Greg's crotch and getting damp and achy? She liked the shape of his legs, too—long and lean. He wore scuffed running shoes that were some off-brand she didn't recognize, and no socks. His lack of pretense was very appealing, especially after she'd spent so much time with Jared, who was terminally fashion-conscious.

  Sex with Greg would mean stripping the act down to its primary motivation—one man, one woman, pure lust. She could guess from Greg's manner of dress and his general attitude that he wouldn't care what brand of mineral water she had in the fridge or whether her sheets had a Calvin Klein label.

  She didn't know how she'd fare in the pure-lust department. In her experience, sex had always been more complicated than that. But watching Greg twist his body as he wrestled with the pipe fitting, listening to his grunt of satisfaction when he wrenched the piece free, she certainly felt as if pure lust was a possibility.

  As he started to emerge from under the sink, she backed out of the doorway to give him room to maneuver. Here she was, standing conveniently in the bedroom. But even if she chose to start something, she'd have no idea what to say first.

  I've heard good things about you, Greg. That sounded way too fake, like bad cocktail-party chatter.

  I'm between boyfriends right now, Greg. Oh, that was classy. She'd appear to have a spare ten minutes where she could work him in.

  I could use a friend, Greg. Better, but not true. She had friends. What she needed was a lover, a lover who would heal her bruised sexual ego.

  He emerged from the bathroom holding the rusted pipe wrapped in a rag he must have taken from his toolbox. "Can I leave my tools here for now?"

  "Sure." Now was the time to tell him he didn't have to rush the job. He could put the pipe down and find something else to do with his hands. She should have asked Terri how she'd handled this awkward moment.

  "Okay. Thanks." He walked past her and out of the bedroom. He was definitely getting away. "Lock up after I leave, though," he said over his shoulder. "This neighborhood's pretty safe, but there's no need to take chances."

  Whatever she needed to say to make him turn around wouldn't come out of her mouth. "Right."

  "See you in about ten minutes."

  "Okeydokey." Ten minutes. Time enough to call Terri and get some advice.

  The door closed behind him. She walked over and locked it as he'd suggested. He didn't know that she was very good about locking up. Just ask Jared, who had been caught in the hall without a key.

  That doggone Jared—he'd known she was going to the store. She seemed to remember having told him to take a key when he'd left for his run, but maybe she hadn't She might have assumed he'd take a key to be on the safe side.

  Suzanne was always on the safe side. This whole business with Greg didn't feel at all safe. She dialed Terri s number and tapped her foot while waiting for the no-solicitation message to finish. Finally Terri picked up.

  "It's Suzanne," she said. "Greg is here fixing my sink."

  "Congratulations!"

  "It really was leaking, Terri."

  "Sure, sure." Terri laughed. "Whatever you say, girl. Enjoy."

  "He left to get a replacement part, and he's coming back. Nothing's happened yet, and I was wondering how you got from the handyman job to … more personal stuff."

  "Um, well … I said something about how I didn't understand guys at all, I think. He asked me to elaborate, and we … took it from there."

  "That was a good line." Suzanne couldn't imagine coining up with a better one, but she could hardly use Terri's.

  "He's very sweet," Terri said. "Don't angst over this. Just start talking to the guy."

  Anxiety caused her ears to buzz. "You know what? I'm not doing this. I'm not cut out for it."

  "That's what you said about the gym, and look at you now."

  "Exactly! I'm sore in places I didn't even know I had places. If you're telling me that getting involved with Greg is like signing up for the gym, then I'm definitely not doing it."

  Terri laughed again. "You're such a crybaby. Greg won't be anything like the gym. He's—"

  The doorbell rang and her chest tightened. "He's back. Bye, Terri."

  "Go for it, Suzanne!"

  She wasn't going to follow Terri's advice, she decided as she went to answer the door. The sound of Greg ringing the doorbell had nearly made her faint. She didn't have the chutzpah to carry this off, and that was that.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  Greg had thought Suzanne might change clothes while he was downstairs, but nope, she wore the same serious businesswoman outfit as before. The velvet bow was still in her hair, too, and the tidy pumps remained on her feet. He couldn't believe she hadn't kicked them off by now.

  There was absolutely nothing in her behavior to suggest she wanted to become more friendly with him. He was almost convinced that she had no interest in talking about her personal life. So then why had she asked his last name?

  "Luckily I found what I needed," he said, holding up a section of pipe.

  "Great." She smiled and stood back so he could come in.

  That smile was still full of nerves, he thought. Terri had said something to her—he was sure of it. Apparently Suzanne didn't know quite what to do with the information.

  "This shouldn't take long," he said as he walked through the white living room with its touching little Christmas tree and one red pillow. "You'll be back in business in no time."

  "That's good." She followed him.

  He tried to interpret why she trailed after him when the job didn't require her to be there. He concluded that she was working up to a real conversation.

  He gestured toward the devil on his way through her bedroom. "Cute little guy."

  "I thought so, too. He was in the kids' department at Marshal Field's, and I couldn't resist him."

  So she'd bought the devil for herself. If someone had given it to her, someone like Jared, he wouldn't have placed so much stock in it. But then again, she wouldn't have had to plop it smack-dab in the middle of her bed, either. The devil said something about her, just like the red pillow in the living room.

  Guaranteed, he'd found a shy woman who was hiding a delicious naughty streak. His ultimate fantasy. But if she was shy, she might never become bold enough to cross the barrier between them.

  That was really for the best, because the longer he hung around Suzanne, the more he realized that he would definitely have trouble maintaining his distance. Suzanne was too close to his ideal woman for comfort. If she indicated the slightest interest he would be setting himself up for a fall.

  Once he got to know her better, she'd pro
bably give herself away like all the others had. Sooner or later she'd ask why he hadn't finished his degree. When she learned he had no interest in that, she'd either end the connection or keep bugging him about it. He wasn't about to be harassed.

  At least now he knew enough not to repeat the mistake he'd made with Amelia. He was probably an idiot for holding out any hope that he'd find a woman who was smart, ambitious and yet willing to let him live as he chose. Still, the hope wouldn't completely die.

  Suzanne lingered in the doorway of the bathroom as he sat down and prepared to wiggle under the sink again. She reminded him of his cat, Matilda, when he'd first found her as a stray two years ago. Matilda had been timid in the beginning, too, but once he'd won her over she'd turned into an awesome cat. He tended to prefer people and animals who were slow to warm up. Although they presented more of a challenge at first, they usually were more steadfast in the end.

  Still, he had the impression that he could fix the sink and leave the apartment without making any real contact with this intriguing woman. Once again, he told himself that was a good thing. He was too attracted to her, and that was dangerous.

  But what if Suzanne was different? What if she was the one he'd been looking for? On impulse, he broke a longstanding rule. "I haven't seen your boyfriend around lately," he said.

  Panic flashed in her blue eyes. "Uh, he—"

  "Not that it's any of my business." He ducked under the sink, silently cursing himself. He might imagine he knew what was going on with Suzanne, but he could be dead wrong. All he really knew was that the pipe under her bathroom sink had rusted out.

  No, that wasn't true, he thought as he applied plumber's tape to the threads of the new pipe. He'd bet a million dollars that she hadn't been the one who walked out of the relationship. And, as his experience taught him, now she was doubting herself, doubting her ability to attract and keep a man. Restoring the confidence of women in that position had become his stock-in-trade recently, and he knew that he did it well.

  In spite of the risk, he wanted to help Suzanne, but he couldn't if she didn't want him to. So far she'd given no indication that she wanted his sympathy and counsel. He inserted the new pipe and tightened it down. At least Suzanne's sink wouldn't leak anymore. As for the rest of her problems, she'd have to decide whether she needed his assistance.

  Crawling back out from under the sink, he checked to see if she was still standing in the bathroom doorway. She wasn't. He'd scared her off with that remark about Jared. Served him right for jumping the gun.

  He turned on the water valve and tested the pipe coupling for leaks. An interesting word—coupling. He hadn't enjoyed any personal coupling in months, not since the mess with Rachel.

  About a year ago he'd stumbled onto a cozy pub, a place where he'd felt instantly at home. The weekly darts tournament had soon become a cherished ritual for him.

  Rachel was one of the regular participants and they'd flirted with each other for months. But they never should have gone to bed together. Deep down he'd known that, but he let a couple of beers and her sexy red dress cloud his judgment. Rachel was good-hearted, and she had an amazing body, but she had no intellectual curiosity whatsoever.

  That's when Greg had learned the hard way that if a women didn't stimulate his mind she wouldn't stimulate the rest of him, at least not after the first flush of discovery had passed. Rachel, as forgiving a woman as he could hope to find, didn't seem to hold it against him. The others had obviously taken their cue from her, so he was still welcomed as part of the group. Because his job could be lonely at times, he needed that connection.

  While he put away his tools and closed up the toolbox, he thought about the bind he'd created for himself. The women who attracted him, like Suzanne, weren't likely to want a guy who was content to remain a handyman for the rest of his life. But women like Rachel, who thought his job was perfectly acceptable, weren't brainy enough to satisfy him. He'd boxed himself into a corner, and he had no idea what to do about it.

  Walking back through Suzanne's bedroom, he noticed her suit jacket lying neatly across the end of the four-poster bed. He wondered if that was a subtle signal, and his pulse quickened.

  Then he blew out a breath, impatient with himself. Talk about overanalyzing the situation. No doubt she'd decided to cook herself some dinner and didn't want to do it wearing a suit jacket.

  Still, he couldn't quite dismiss the picture of Suzanne in the bedroom taking off her suit jacket while he was only a few feet away working on the pipe under her bathroom sink. Thinking of Suzanne unfastening buttons and arching her back slightly as she slipped out of the jacket, he experienced a distinct stirring in his groin.

  That impulse had required two beers and a slinky red dress in Rachel's case. Apparently, in Suzanne's case, all he needed was his own fertile imagination and a black suede jacket lying across the end of a bed of roses.

  He took another look at the little red devil on her bed. If only Suzanne hadn't asked him his last name, he'd be convinced that there was nothing on her mind besides the sink. But she had asked, which made him wonder if the two of them were missing a golden opportunity to get better acquainted.

  "See you later, buddy," he said to the devil, although chances were he never would.

  He found Suzanne in the kitchen stirring a saucepan full of tomato soup. By eliminating the jacket, she'd raised the seduction value of her outfit about five hundred percent. The cream-colored blouse had long sleeves with covered buttons down the front and at the cuffs. A silky blouse like that draped a woman's breasts like nothing else he knew of. He could make out a hint of lace beneath the material, a kind of subtlety that had always driven him a little crazy.

  Moist heat from the stove had steamed up the small window over the sink, which seemed to close them into their own private world. If they were lovers, he'd put down his toolbox and walk up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. Then he'd cup her breasts. He swallowed, nearly able to feel the warm silk against his palms. Gradually he'd begin unfastening the buttons…

  He cleared his throat. "You're all set," he said. "No leaks."

  She glanced up, a wary look in her eyes. "Thank you so much."

  Had she seemed more relaxed, he might have searched for a reason to stay, but she was as uptight as ever. "I'll be taking off, then." He started to leave.

  "Would you…"

  He turned back. "What?"

  Her cheeks were pinker than the roses decorating her comforter. "Would you like some soup?"

  He hesitated, unsure if the offer was made from courtesy because he'd caught her in the act of preparing it, or if she genuinely wanted him to stay.

  "It's out of a can," she said. "It's not homemade or anything. And I'm keeping it simple." She nodded toward a cheese board holding a wedge of cheddar and a cheese slicer. Next to that was a basketfull of assorted crackers. "Just crackers and cheese to go with it."

  That decided the issue. No way would he turn down her soup and make her think he cared whether it was canned or not, or whether he was picky about having a full meal. "Thanks. That would be great." He looked around for a place to put his toolbox.

  "Over there by the pantry is fine."

  He set the box down, shoving it out of the way as best he could.

  "I've never seen a wooden toolbox like that," she said. "Aren't they usually made out of metal?"

  "The newer ones are," he said. "This one belonged to my dad." He couldn't remember any of the tenants commenting on the box, and he was pleased that she had. The toolbox meant a great deal to him, but to most people, it was only a big wooden carrying case. "Can I help with anything?"

  She shrugged. "Not much to do but stir."

  The kitchen was small and narrow, with the stove and refrigerator on one side, the sink and cabinets on the other. He wanted to wash his hands before he ate, but if he stood at the sink, he'd be crowding her, invading her space. Still, going back into the bathroom to wash his hands seemed sort of ridiculous.

/>   "I'd like to wash up, if you don't mind."

  "Sure." She didn't look up from her vigorous stirring of the soup.

  The space between was barely big enough for two people. He was careful not to brush against her as he moved in front of the sink. In such proximity he could smell that rose fragrance of hers, and when he leaned over to wash his hands, his hip brushed against her. He imagined he heard a quick intake of breath and wondered if she'd felt the same jolt of awareness he had.

  "Sorry," he said. He tilted his pelvis toward the sink.

  "Not a problem."

  He was a skilled listener, and he heard the tremble in her voice. "They didn't build these kitchens with two people in mind." In reality he thought this was the best kind of kitchen for cooking with your lover. He thought large spaces were highly overrated.

  Pulling a paper towel from a rack, he noticed that the screws on the rack were loose. "Your towel rack needs to be tightened up," he said. Yeah, sure. He was looking for an excuse to keep occupying that space.

  "Later, maybe. The soup's ready. If you'll take the crackers and cheese into the living room, I'll bring the soup."

  He reached over and picked up the cracker basket and the cheese board before going to stand near the kitchen doorway. "We're eating in the living room? On that white sofa?" He had a vision of tomato soup all over it.

  "It's stain-proofed." She turned, reached into the cabinet and took out two large stoneware mugs. When she did that, she grimaced, as if raising her arms hurt her.

  "Are you okay?"

  She turned in surprise. "I'm fine. Why?"

  "You looked as if you were in pain just then."

  "Oh. I've been going to the gym with Terri, and my muscles aren't pleased about it."

  Now he had a new picture to contend with—Suzanne in tight workout clothes. "I don't think you're supposed to get sore working out. Do you stretch?" He wondered why anybody with a body like hers felt the need to go to the gym. No body-sculpting machine would be able to improve on those measurements.

  "I stretch." She took the pan from the stove and started pouring the soup into the mugs. "I get in the hot tub. I take herbal baths when I get home."