My Valentine

by Sheridon Smythe

  Behind him, Mrs. Davidson supported a flushed and fevered Jamy, while the two girls held hands and gazed around them with huge incredulous eyes. Christian doubted they'd ever seen the likes of this hotel, and the thought fueled his determination to help this impoverished family. He didn't know what drove him—most likely the same thing that drove him to make a generous, yearly donation to the orphanage in New York.

  He hated poverty.

  The desk clerk looked nervously around him, probably hoping other clients had not witnessed their arrival. Christian curled his lip, reaching into his pocket for the no-fail incentive. Without the slightest hesitation, the young desk clerk took the money.

  "I'll get the room right away, Mr. Brown."

  "I want a bath sent up—with plenty of hot water—and food. Lot's of food."

  "Right away, Sir.” The desk clerk avoided looking behind Christian at the ragged group.

  Inwardly, Christian sighed, knowing it was just the beginning. The desk clerk would have to be reminded the Davidson's were paying guests, not derelicts off the street, and as paying guests should be treated equably.

  And he wouldn't hesitate to remind him.

  The opportunity came sooner than expected. Signaling a bell boy, the clerk then leaned across the counter so that his voice wouldn't carry as he spoke to Christian. “If you'll just ask the folks to wait outside while we get the room ready—"

  Whatever he was about to say got choked off as Christian grabbed the man's collar and hauled him closer. “You will take them up to their room now, do you understand? And you will continue to treat them like the decent folks they are.” A grim smile curved his mouth. “The boy's sick, and I'd hate for him to mess up that fine carpet, wouldn't you?” As if on cue, Jamy began coughing.

  The clerk paled. “Y-yes, Sir. Sorry Sir. Right away Sir.” Christian released him. The clerk gulped and massaged his neck where the fancy collar of his shirt had bitten into his skin. He turned to the round-eyed bell boy and shoved the key into his hands. “Take these—folks—up to room number two-oh-eight. They've ordered a bath and food. See they get it immediately."

  The bell boy darted Christian a nervous glance before hustling to do as the clerk said.

  Christian turned to find Mrs. Davidson regarding him intently. The unmistakable gratitude in her eyes humbled him. “I'll help you get Jamy up to your room, then I've got some things to take care of."

  She nodded, motioning for the girls to follow as Christian took the sick boy from her shoulders. Jamy offered a weak smile barely visible above the moth-eaten scarf wrapped around his face.

  With the right care and proper environment, the doctor predicted Jamy might recover. Christian intended to see that he received every chance.

  "Come along, Jamy. Let's get you well. The girls down at the factory miss you."

  Jamy's face reddened alarmingly. “I—it was n—nice of Cupid to come check on me."

  Christian stopped half-way up the stairs and glanced at Jamy. Mrs. Davidson and the girls halted behind him. “Cupid?” Perhaps the boy's fever was up again, he thought.

  Jamy's freckles disappeared entirely. His lashes fluttered in nervous reaction, and his stutter grew prominent. “Y—yes Sir, C—Cupid. Miss Mitchell. E—everyone c—calls her that. S—she makes people fa—fall in love, you k—know."

  "Oh she does, does she?” Christian laughed and continued half-carrying the sick boy up the stairs. “Cupid ... hmmmm. It suits her, doesn't it?” he mumbled to himself.

  Cupid. With a grin, Christian filed the information away. A man never knew when he might need such an interesting little tidbit.

  * * * *

  On Friday, Miss Howland kept Rosalyn busy handing out fliers announcing the fund-raiser on Sunday afternoon. She tacked many of the posters in shop-front windows, and passed hundreds out by hand. She smiled until her face felt as if it would crack from the strain and chattered with people she knew and people she didn't until her voice grew hoarse.

  By the time she reached the bottom of the huge stack of fliers the girls had hastily constructed, she was ready to collapse. Her feet throbbed, and her jaws ached. Fingers, stiff and red from the cold, felt as if they were permanently frozen.

  And there was still the small matter of gathering the materials for her valentine to make on the morrow.

  She moaned at the thought, falling onto her bed in the late evening. Maybe a tiny nap would put her in shape. As her eyes drifted closed, an idea came to her, as it often did when she was on the verge of sleep.

  With an excited cry, Rosalyn shot up from the bed. From the night stand, she pulled out a sheaf of drawing paper and a pencil. She scribbled now, furiously and without pause until the deepening shadows forced her to stop and light the lamp. That done, she quickly went back to work.

  Thirty minutes later, she held the drawing up to the lamp and studied it with a critical eye. A man and a woman sat across from each other at a small table in a kitchen, their raised hands clasped together. The background for the cozy scene was a large window, and on the other side of that window a winter wonderland shown romantically beneath the yellow glow of gas lamps.

  With rising excitement, Rosalyn peered at the valentine she'd drawn, lying on the table between the couple.

  Right now, the black dots where the rubies should be looked flat and unremarkable, but Rosalyn knew that with the right beads, she could make the valentine look exactly like the one Callie had given her. Oh, the rubies wouldn't be real—they'd be glass confetti—but they would look real.

  She would fashion the couple out of white lace, and paste them against a red background. Then she would cut each tiny snowflake, and use red glass beads for rubies—

  Rosalyn chewed her bottom lip in consternation. Where to find the beads? She didn't remember seeing red beads in the scrap bin, or anywhere on the work table. And if there had been any, then the other girls, who had gotten to spend the whole day designing and gathering their materials, would surely have snagged them by now.

  Drats. Rosalyn thought hard, searching her memory. Callie.... Callie had often kept a supply of colored beads in her sewing basket, to decorate Christmas cards and gifts, or make colorful stringers for the Christmas tree.

  Rosalyn's gaze widened on the sketch, but the picture remained out of focus. Callie's sewing basket was sitting on the secretary in the upstairs sewing room.

  At Callie's house.

  She couldn't. She shouldn't. She wouldn't.

  She would! Mr. Toombs had taken Callie's key, but he hadn't asked for Rosalyn's copy, and she hadn't volunteered. She'd kept it as a memento...

  It would be unlawful, but what would it really hurt? Christian Garret—if he ever arrived, and she didn't think he had because she looked for signs of occupancy every time she traveled down that street—would not care about silly ole’ worthless beads. Yet, for Rosalyn, they held a great value. They could mean a ribbon, and a hundred dollars for a needy family like the Davidsons.

  Rosalyn thrust the drawing on the bed and gathered her gloves. She still wore her coat, and if she hurried, she could catch Willis before he quit for the night. Callie's house was on the other side of town, further than she thought her poor feet could carry her.

  She could be in and out of the house in a flash, with no one the wiser. It wasn't really stealing, for she knew Callie would have given them to her if she'd known Rosalyn would need them. Christian Garret couldn't possibly care about something as trivial as glass beads.

  After all, he cared nothing about a dying woman, his own step mother.

  Her thoughts suddenly grim, Rosalyn pocketed a new candle from the table and a tin of matches. It was getting dark, and she might need the light in case Mr. Toombs had moved things around.

  Thank God Christian Garret had not returned.

  Chapter Nine

  How Many Different People Can You Be

  And Which One of You Belongs to Me

  Will I Ever with My Own Eyes See?

  Then I Sha
ll Know...

  Christian squinted in the failing light, took a mighty swing, and split the log. He propped the ax against the chopping block and wiped the freezing sweat from his brow before bending to gather the last load of wood.

  He had forgotten how long it had been since he'd done any physical labor, and realized he missed it. Often he worked alongside his laborers, earning their respect and grudging admiration—once they got passed the shock of seeing their boss break a sweat. Christian smiled at the thought, his gaze going to the wood shed tucked away in a corner of the back yard. Thankfully, Callie had kept it stocked, but on closer inspection, Christian had discovered many of the logs too large for the smaller bedroom fireplaces.

  Tomorrow, he wanted every available fireplace blazing. Damned house was frigid, and it had taken him most of the afternoon to unthaw the pump in the kitchen. At least that was one room of the house that was cozy warm now. He'd used the cook stove to heat the kitchen and thaw the pump.

  In New York, he lived in an apartment that required very little maintenance, but Christian hadn't forgotten those few lean years when he and his mother had nearly frozen and starved.

  He would never forget.

  What would have happened if he hadn't developed a vicious lung fever much like the one Jamy had now? It wasn't until then that his mother snapped out of her grieving stupor and swallowed her pride. His grandmother welcomed them with open arms, appalled over her grandson's condition and furious over his father's desertion.

  "Damn.” Christian shook his head, wondering why he couldn't forget. It was a long time ago and he was a long way from starving or freezing to death now.

  He opened the back door and went through the warm kitchen into the parlor to stack the wood by the old Franklin stove, the only working model in the house. Three of the bedrooms held small fireplaces, with the library sporting a bigger one and the sewing room possessing none.

  Looking around at the comfortable furniture gracing the parlor, Christian could almost imagine Callie rocking in the chair by the stove.

  He dusted his hands and stood back, deciding on his next move. The pantry was filled with every kind of food available, including sticky buns from the bakery, which Christian knew the girls, Holly and Julie, would enjoy. Fresh linens from the local cleaners lay in readiness upstairs; he wasn't much on making beds. He'd refilled the lamps with oil, checked for a good supply of matches, and made certain each fireplace ventilated well. The bedrooms contained enough wood to burn for a few days, and he'd stacked plenty for the kitchen stove.

  What else could the family possibly need? he wondered, frowning as he looked around. He planned to come back in the morning to warm the house before bringing the Davidson's here to stay until Jamy recovered. After that ... well, he didn't know. He'd think of something.

  Deciding to make one last check of the second floor, Christian loped across the room and took the stairs two at a time.

  He was on the landing when he heard a key rattle in the front door. The door closing sounded like the snap of a brittle branch in a quiet forest.

  Christian froze.

  * * * *

  Rosalyn pocketed the key and closed the door as quietly as she could, chiding herself for her fears. Not a soul could hear her, because not a soul was around. She turned and peered through the dim shadows of the parlor, sniffing the air and fancying she smelled wood smoke. It was a familiar smell, for Callie had refused to use coal or revert to gas as many of Worcester's residents had recently done.

  Her chest tightened with sorrow at the memory, and with a straightening of her shoulders, she crossed the polished wood floor to the stairs. Glancing up at the shadowy enclosure, she considered lighting her candle, then shrugged. She was silly for being nervous; this was her home—or had been. She'd never been frightened before, and she wouldn't be now.

  The stairway creaked in all the old familiar places, bringing with it fresh memories of happy times spent here, with Callie. Rosalyn closed her eyes as she climbed the stairs, cherishing the cool oak banister beneath her palm as she slid her hand along the railing.

  Callie loved this house. Rosalyn loved this house. It saddened her to think it would go to a man with a heart of ice. He would sell the contents, and then the house itself...

  Rosalyn reached the top stair and opened her eyes. A dark shadow loomed before her—a shadow of a man! She opened her mouth to scream, but a heavy hand clamped tight, stifling the sound. She stumbled backwards, tripping over her coat. Suddenly, she lost her grip on the bannister and felt herself falling.

  Strong hands reached out and hooked into the front of her coat, hauling her back from certain death. Rosalyn realized her mouth was once again free and drew another breath to scream. Before she could, the hand returned, pressing her lips into her teeth.

  "Be quiet!” a voice hissed. “Okay?"

  Rosalyn stared at the shadowy, vaguely familiar face, recognizing the voice. Sagging in relief, she nodded. He dropped his hand and pulled her onto the landing. Rosalyn's first attempt to speak came out in a squeak. She tried again.

  "You—you scared the life out of me! What are you doing here? Did you follow me?” She was too angry to feel the slightest bit flattered by the possibility. Her heart slammed against her chest, and her limbs felt weak. It was difficult to forget that sense of falling—she'd nearly tumbled down the stairs! “What did you do, come in the back way just to scare me senseless?"

  "Are you finished ripping me apart?” he drawled in a lazy, amused voice.

  Oh, so he thought it was funny, did he? Rosalyn knocked him against the wall with a fist square into his chest. She needed to sit down before her knees gave way, but she didn't want to add to his amusement. Scaring the life out of her—"Would you be laughing if I had fallen?” she demanded, breathing hard.

  With a husky laugh, he pulled her against him so that she leaned into his hard frame. Rosalyn gasped and tried to pull away, suddenly remembering where she was and who she was with. Someone who made her forget everything she had been taught. “Let me go, Chris."

  He ignored her plea. “Did you really think I would let you fall?” came his throaty question.

  The buttons of his coat pressed into her breasts. Rosalyn tried not to imagine what else might be pressing into her. He felt hard all over. Hard and delicious. She shifted, trying to ease out of his hold. His hands began move up and down her arms, adding to the weakness in her knees. Why did he do this to her?

  She began to panic. “What are you doing here?” she asked again, holding her face away from his. She didn't want to—oh, no—what she really wanted to do was lean into him and press her mouth against his—

  "Why, following you, like you guessed.” He slid his arm around her waist and with his free hand, began unbuttoning her coat while he spoke. “So what are you doing here? Forget something? This is your friend's house, isn't it?"

  Rosalyn searched her muddled mind for an answer. What was she doing here? Looking for red beads to go on a valentine? Oh, no, he wasn't going to trick her into mentioning the valentine, because she hadn't forgotten his last reaction. But she could tell him the partial truth. “I'm looking for decorations for a special project Miss Howland has requested.” It was true, all of it. So far, so good. “Callie, she has—had—a collection of colored beads, you see.” What in heaven's name was wrong with her tongue?

  "So you thought you'd sneak in and retrieve them,” he finished.

  He also finished unbuttoning her coat and began to push the bulky material aside.

  Rosalyn licked her lips, deciding she'd better find out what he was up to. “Why are you unbuttoning my coat?"

  He laughed at her candor and swiftly released the buttons of his own coat. Rosalyn gasped as he brought their bodies together again. It was the first time she had ever, in her life, been this close to a man. Although there were still layers of clothing between them, the mixture of heat from both their bodies mingled, fused, creating a deliciously wicked sensation in her stomach.
>
  Lowering his face to hers, he rubbed their cold noses together until Rosalyn's began to tingle. Warm breath whispered enticingly across her face. “Because I want to feel your warm body against mine."

  Oh, Lord. She had to get away before she forgot her self-imposed restrictions regarding this man. Or any man, come to think of it. “Chris—please, we shouldn't—"

  "Why not?” he mumbled, his lips nuzzling hers.

  She drew in a sharp breath, wanting to turn that little fraction of inch and bring their mouths together. He smelled of wood smoke and the deep cold of winter.

  "We're not doing anything wrong—yet."

  "And—and we won't.” Her declaration apparently fell on deaf ears. “Chris ... what are you doing now?"

  "Kissing your neck."

  He was. Shivers trailed along her spine as his moist lips nipped and suckled the length of her neck, then back up to her ear, then across her jaw to her mouth...

  Rosalyn gave up without a fight, opening her mouth to the fierce possession of his. Bowing to his dominance like a willow to the wind. Willpower? Ha! She could do nothing but cling to his arms to keep from falling! When he finally lifted his head, she gasped and pressed her hot face into his shoulder.

  Gently, he forced her chin up, and through the dim light Rosalyn recognized the open desire in his eyes. Was this how she looked to him? she wondered. And did his legs feel as if the kneecaps had dissolved? It was just a darned good thing he was leaning against the wall, or he'd find himself supporting her completely.

  She suspected he wouldn't mind. The thought made her tremble. “Where do you think this is going to—” She stuttered to a halt as he swiftly released the buttons on his shirt and took her hands, pressing them against the bare wall of his chest.