Snowflakes and Silver Linings

by Cara Colter

  Casey wrestled her multiple personalities into submission and held out her hand. “My keys?”

  He dangled them above her waiting palm, but didn’t let go. When he looked at her, his gaze steady and stripping, she was shocked that she felt astoundingly the same as she had felt all those years ago.

  As if he truly saw her. As if he saw things about her no one else ever had. As if he knew everything and anything there was to know about her that was of any interest at all! But she’d been so much more naive back then than she was now.

  Now she knew some men just had a gift—an intensity, a power of focus—that could make a woman feel as if she was the only one in his world.

  “Is Christmas still the hardest thing for you?” he asked, softly.

  Oh, no. There was seeing underthings, and then there was seeing under things.

  “W-w-what would make you say that?”

  “You told me. You told me that your twin brother died on Christmas Day. Angelo,” Turner said softly.

  Her best friends had not remembered this. Did Emily and Andrea even know her brother’s name?

  “I remember,” he continued softly, “that you told me how you so wanted a Christmas miracle, and prayed for one. How you bargained with God. And Santa Claus. ‘Just let my brother live.’ That stuck with me.

  “And when I heard you’d gone into medical research, it was, like, you go, girl. You make your miracle happen. If any such thing exists, I hope you are the one who gets it.”

  He looked hard at her, and she had a feeling she was not hiding the tears that pressed from behind her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. I’m turned around. I’m somewhere between exhausted and delirious.”

  “How could I get a miracle?” she demanded softly. “No matter how my research goes, I can’t bring back my brother.”

  “Not that I consider myself anything of an expert on miracles—” he laughed slightly, a deeply cynical sound “—but it seems to me it’s something of one that you are determined to turn your own loss into something good for someone else.”

  Casey realized it was this exact thing she had run from when she had headed for her car in the deep, dark night instead of wanting to chance an encounter with him.

  It felt as if Turner saw her, went straight past the red lace to the core of her, and went to it with alarming swiftness.

  This was the same way she had felt during those three days together.

  As if, for the first time in her life, someone had seen her. As if, for the first time in her life, she was not completely alone.

  But that was why she was at the beginning stages of making her plan to create her own family, to have a baby.

  So that she would not be so alone anymore. And so she did not have to rely on someone who had proved himself as unreliable as Turner Kennedy, to make that happen.

  She was not letting Turner disrupt her carefully planned world!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “ARE YOU HAPPY, CASEY?” Turner asked softly.

  The question was a disruption of her carefully planned world. And it was what she least expected. Not suave. Not teasing. Not flirtatious. She hated that he had asked that, because even if she didn’t answer him—and she certainly did not intend to—she had to answer it to herself.

  She had to get her guard back up!

  “Of course I’m happy,” she said, in a tone with so much bite she sounded anything but.

  Happy? She was suddenly and achingly aware she was the furthest thing from happy. She was a woman who had experienced way too many losses in much too quick a succession.

  Was it fair to have a baby to make herself happy?

  Ridiculous to ask herself that! The point would be to make the baby happy. To give it the joyous, stable, wonderful family she had always craved.

  Her life would finally be on track. She would have someone to live for, and to love!

  This was just what he had done that night of Cole and Emily’s wedding. Sitting with Casey on a darkened stretch of grass under a star-studded sky, wrapped in a blanket, Turner Kennedy had pulled her secret longings from her one by one, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

  Making her do something crazy. Run away with me. Just pretend I’m a prince....

  And then, she reminded herself, leaving her. Period.

  “And I’ll be even happier when you hand over my keys,” she said.

  The keys dropped into her hand with a cold jingle. “I liked your hair better the way it was before.”

  “Thank you. You said that already. I’ll take your opinion under careful consideration.”

  “You do that.”

  That was better. A certain awkwardness between them, as if they had never shared anything at all.

  And then it all changed in a split second.

  Bang.

  The noise, a huge boom above their heads, was deafening in the quiet night. Before she knew what had happened, she was on the floor of the porch, Turner’s hard body on top of her, shielding her, crushing the breath out of her.

  A logical mind, which Casey’s usually was, would have screamed Danger!

  And she felt danger, all right, but not the kind that came from some unknown threat on the roof!

  Silence settled again, and then was broken by the hiss of something sliding through the snow across the roof.

  Turner’s arms tightened around Casey, even as he peered upward. And while he was totally focused on the dangers above them, she was totally focused on the danger within her.

  Casey could feel an intense sensation of heightened awareness. She could feel the crush of his chest against her breast, could count the ridges of his ribs where they were pressed into hers.

  She could feel the coiled tension in arm muscles folded around her, and where the hard line of his thigh met the softer line of hers. She could feel the steady, elevated tattoo of his heart and the ragged beat of her own.

  He was so close she could see the shadow of whiskers darkening the exquisite cut of his cheekbones, his jaw. She could see the perfect texture of his skin.

  His scent—pine trees and cool mountain lakes—enveloped her.

  Her scientific mind insisted on posing a question: Why was it that she felt so safe, when it was obvious he felt anything but?

  She stared up into his face and knew, suddenly, that it had worked both ways during those long-ago few days.

  Turner Kennedy had seen her as no one else ever had. But she had seen him, too, felt she had known things about him. Now, studying his face as he squinted up toward the porch ceiling, she put her finger on what was different about him.

  During those playful days, Turner Kennedy had seemed hopeful and filled with confidence. He had told her about losing his dad under very hard circumstances, but she had been struck by a certain faith in himself to change all that was bad about the world.

  Now, Casey was aware she was looking into the face of a warrior—calm, strong, watchful. Ready.

  And also, deeply weary. There was a hard-edged cynicism about him that went deeper than cynical. It went to his soul.

  Casey knew that just as she had known things about him all those years ago. It was as if, with him, she arrived at a different level of knowing with almost terrifying swiftness.

  And the other thing she knew?

  Turner Kennedy was ready to protect her with his life.

  A second passed and then two, but they were long, drawn-out seconds, as if time had come to an amazing standstill.

  This was what chemicals did, sh
e told herself dreamily. He thought, apparently, they were in mortal danger.

  She was bathing in the intoxicating closeness of him.

  Casey could feel the strong beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was radiating a silky, sensual warmth, and she could feel the exact moment that his muscles began to uncoil. She observed the watchfulness drain from his expression, felt the thud of his heart quieting.

  Finally, he looked away from the roof and gazed intently down at her.

  Now that his mind had sounded some kind of all-clear, he, too, seemed to be feeling the pure chemistry of their closeness. His breath caressed her face like the touch of a summer breeze. She could feel her own heart picking up tempo as his began to slow. His mouth dropped closer to hers.

  The new her, the one that was going to be impervious to the chemistry of pure attraction, seemed to be sitting passively in the backseat instead of the driver’s seat. Because instead of giving Turner a much deserved shove—fight—or scooting out from under him—flight—she licked her lips, and watched his eyes darken and his lips drop even closer to hers.

  But then the dog whined, did her best to insert her furry self between them, and licked Casey’s face.

  “Ugh!” She spat in pure disappointment. A dog’s kiss instead of his!

  But at least it had brought Casey to her senses. She managed to get her hands up in between them, and pushed.

  Turner reared back off her, got his legs under him, leaped up with ease. But when she went to rise, too, he glanced at her, his expression once again remote. Stern, even. She didn’t question her obedience when he held up his hand, stilling her while he scanned the darkness.

  He went and leaned out over the porch railing, glanced up, and she could see whatever tension that remained in him dissipate completely.

  He turned back to her, looking faintly sheepish. When he stretched out his hand to her, she took it, felt the chemical reaction again to his touch, his easy strength as he pulled her to her feet. He made an awkward attempt to brush off her jacket, then gave up.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I overreacted.”

  She thought of his lips nearly claiming hers, but apparently that wasn’t what he felt he had overreacted to.

  “A branch from this oak tree broke under the weight of the snow and landed on the roof.”

  She glanced where he was looking, and saw a huge limb had broken off, hit the porch roof and slid down it. Part of the broken branch was visible where it hung off the edge.

  “What did you think it was?” she asked him softly.

  He shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Something made her push, but she wasn’t sure what. Certainly it wasn’t the self-preservation of fight or flight. “What did you think it was?” she asked again.

  This time he rolled his shoulders, looked away, then back at her, obviously pained by her persistence.

  “What?”

  “I thought it was an explosion,” he said quietly.

  She took in again the expression on his face, registered the warrior way that he carried himself and had reacted.

  “Where have you been, Turner?” she murmured. “Where have you been that your first thought would be it was an explosion?”

  He looked away, gazed out into the darkness of the night. When he turned back, a small smile toyed with the edges of his mouth. But she could see it hid more than it revealed, and that was the way he wanted it.

  “Why?” he asked. “Were you waiting for a postcard?”

  Something dangerously close to sympathy for him had been rising in her. Now, his sardonic tone erased that.

  As if her hair loved all the fuss it was causing tonight, a strand, loosened from gel hell by the humidity of the wetly falling snow, sprang free and curled wildly. She blew it out of her eyes. “You know, it wouldn’t take much for you to succeed at making me angry.”

  “Now, that is something I would really like to see,” he said, unperturbed. “Though if knocking you to the floor didn’t do it, I’m probably safe from your temper for tonight.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Maybe I wasn’t expecting a postcard, but would it have been so hard? To wake me up before you left that morning? To call just once to let me know what you were doing? To write a little note saying you enjoyed the days we spent together? To let me know you were all right?”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her steadily. She ordered herself to shut up, but she didn’t.

  “Nothing,” she said, hoping it was anger and not pain he heard. “Not a single, solitary word. I’m surprised you even remembered my name, let alone my hair. And my brother. And my brother’s name. And the way I feel at Christmas.”

  “I’ve never forgotten anything about you.”

  Some horrible weakness uncurled within her, but she saw it as completely forgivable since her defenses had been weakened by being pinned under him on the floor.

  “That surprises me,” she said coolly. She ordered herself to leave it there, but then reconsidered. They were going to be spending time here under the same roof, working toward the same goal of creating a perfect day for Emily and Cole.

  Maybe there were some things they needed to get out of the way, that should be addressed so the tension between them didn’t spoil things for others.

  “I thought I would hear from you again,” she said.

  “I made it clear from the outset. I had three days. We had three days. That was all.”

  But she had thought those three days would change everything. She had nursed the hope that whatever mysterious thing was taking him away, the pull of what existed between them would prove irresistible! She had thought she would be able to wheedle his secret out of him, but she hadn’t been able to, and in truth, hadn’t that been part of the excitement? His mystery?

  “Yes, you made that abundantly clear,” she said coolly. “But you never said why.”

  “It’s a long time ago,” he said wearily.

  “You’re the one who brought up the postcard you never sent.”

  He sighed.

  She could feel color rising in her cheeks. The last thing she would ever want him to know was how she had waited. And believed. That he would call. That he would come back. That he had felt it, too.

  An intensity of connection that had left her bereft as she had accepted he wasn’t going to call. He wasn’t coming back.

  “It didn’t have anything to do with you,” he said, as if he could see suddenly in her eyes, despite the fact she was trying to guard her thoughts from him, all those desperate nights of waiting for him. The unexpected gentleness in his tone nearly undid her.

  He raised his hand, as if to touch her throat or her hair again, but she stepped back. She was not sure what she would do if he touched her.

  What she would want to do, that crazy gypsy dancer inside her, drenched in the chemical reaction to having his body over hers moments ago, would be to turn her head and catch his fingertips with her lips.

  So she pulled her coat tighter around her, dropped her keys in one of the deep side pockets, and let her hand follow them. Suddenly, she realized how easily he had deflected her when she had asked him where he was. He had turned the question, making it about her instead. Was it possible he had even irritated her on purpose?

  “You never did say where you went, why you had only three days.” Did she sound as if she was begging for an explanation? She hated that! She had begged for an explanation then, to no avail.

  At the tim
e she had taken his “let’s just live for the moment” as a sign of how wonderful everything was, not a warning that there would be only those moments.

  He hesitated, looked away from her and then looked back, frowning.

  “That night of Em and Cole’s wedding, those crazy days in New York with you, that was the last time I was in that world. I left it behind completely,” he admitted softly. “I left it behind completely because that is what I had trained to do. Immerse myself in a new reality. If I even glanced back, I would not have been able to perform.”

  “Emily thought you were in France! Or Italy.”

  He snorted.

  “Perform what?” Casey whispered.

  But he looked closed now, even annoyed with himself, and equally annoyed with her, as if she had dragged state secrets out of him.

  And suddenly she wondered how close that was to the truth. A shadowy job no one seemed to know that much about, even his closest friends. A contractor for the government. And now, reacting to a snapping branch as if a gun had gone off. Or an explosion.

  She absorbed it, along with the new air about him. “You’re a spy,” she guessed.

  But his expression was closed now, completely unforthcoming.

  “Bond,” he said drily. “James Bond.”

  It was sarcastic, and it was a deflection. But it was not a denial.

  “Are you?”

  “A spy?” he said, and laughed, but it was a sound without humor. “That would imply a certain level of glamor, and I’m afraid nothing could be further from the truth. I’ve held some contracts that were sensitive.”

  “Secret?” she guessed.

  He shrugged, shutting her out. His glance warned her no more.

  And he was right. She was being way too interested.

  Sucked in was more like it. Turner Kennedy’s substantial charm was now layered with something dark and dangerous. Plus there was that chemical-inducing moment of lying beneath him....

  Turner shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, stuck it in the corner of his mouth and spoke around it. “What are you doing wandering around out here, lingerie-filled suitcase in hand, in the middle of the night, anyway?”