Ann Major - Silhouette Christmas Stories

"Oh, I have a spare bedroom."

"Then you live alone?"

There was another long moment's silence, and he wondered if there was a new man in her life. He thought she blushed.

"Y-yes."

She was lying. He felt it. "What a shame," he murmured, pretending to believe her.

But she didn't hear him. She was leaning on the steering wheel, turning the truck, braking in front of a locked gate.

She got out and unlocked it. The least he could do was slide across the seat and drive the truck through.

So he did. She relocked the gate and climbed back inside.

"So, do you do this often?" he demanded, the mere thought making him angry all over again.

"What?"

"Drive home alone? Get out and struggle with that damned gate in all kinds of weather?"

"As often as I have to."

"You need a man."

"So I've been told."

That rankled.

"But I don't want a man."

His taunt was silky smooth. "Then you've changed."

And that made her good and mad.

She stomped a muddy white boot to the accelerator so hard his head snapped back. A sudden blaze of pain exploded somewhere in the middle of his brain.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry," she said.

But he knew she wasn't.

He rubbed his head. At least she wasn't indifferent. But then, she never had been. Neither had he. That had been the problem.

So this was where None had been for five damn years. This was what she preferred to the kind of life a Hale could have given her, the kind of life he could have given her.

As she drove, Grant stared in wonder at the small farm, the falling-down picket fence, the white, two-story, frame house built on a scant rise beneath towering pecan trees. The windmill. Why had she chosen this instead of him? Instead of everything he could give her?

The house was probably eighty or ninety years old. He'd been in old houses like this one before, houses that were built so they would catch the summer breezes and the windmill would be driven. In the winter such shabby structures were too vulnerable to the cold north winds.

A screened-in porch was on either side of the building and there was a veranda across the front. A solitary yellow bulb by the front door was the only source of light. He noted the tumbledown cistern in the backyard and the large flowerbeds where she could grow flowers in spring and summer. A clothesline was strung from the corner of the house to the back gatepost. There was a small enclosed yard.

She parked the truck in front of the house. Everything seemed so bleak and cold to him-so remote. He was used to living in the middle of town, in a beautiful home, surrounded by beautiful things-antiques, carpets, tapestry, crystal.

"It's not the Hale mansion," she whispered.

Was he so obvious? "You ran from all that."

"I never belonged."

"You could have."

"No." The tortured word was torn from her throat.

For a second longer she stayed beside him, so close he could almost feel the heat of her body. Then she threw open her door and ran up to the house. He followed at a much slower pace.

He felt almost sure there was no man in her life. Even though it was dark, he saw that the grass was too high. There wasn't much firewood left. The gate latch needed fixing. He stumbled and nearly fell when the bottom two steps gave beneath his weight because the wood was rotten. A splintering pain centered in his hurt knee, and he had to stop for a second.

"You okay?" she whispered.

"Great."

She was fumbling with the key when he caught up to her.

"The lock keeps sticking."

"That's because your hands are shaking. Let me help you, Norie."

She handed him the key, dropping it into his open palm, careful not to touch him. "A lot of things are broken around here."

His knee throbbed. "I noticed."

He opened the door, and she led him inside, into an icy living room with high ceilings and tall windows. She pulled the chain of an ancient Tiffany lamp. There were wooden rocking chairs and a battered upright piano. The atmosphere was homey, but everything- the furniture, the paint, the curtains-had a faded, much-scrubbed look. There was no central heat. He saw a single gas space heater at one end of the room. It was an old-fashioned house, the type kindly grandmothers were supposed to live in.

"Like I said, it's not the Hale mansion," Norie apologized again. "But would you mind taking off your shoes?"

She was about to lean down and remove her own muddy boots, but he grabbed her arm. At his touch a sudden tremor shook her. He felt a strange pull from her, and he couldn't let her go.

"Do you really think I give a damn about your house?" His voice was rasping, unsteady. "I came to see you."

For a moment longer he held her. She didn't struggle. He almost wished she had, because he probably would have pulled her into his arms. Her expression was blank; her dark glittering eyes were enormous. He could think of nothing except how beautiful she was. Unconsciously she caught her lower lip with her teeth, and that slight nervous movement drew his gaze to her mouth.

They were alone, in the middle of nowhere. It had been five years. Five long years. He wanted to kiss her, to taste her. But he had made that mistake before- twice-the first night he'd met her, and on her wedding day.

He swallowed hard. "Thank you… for letting me stay."

He saw intense emotion in her eyes.

Although it was the most difficult thing he'd ever done, instead of drawing her closer, he released her. She leaned down and pulled her boots off. As he bent over to do the same, the shock of pain that raced from his knee up his thigh made him gasp.

"You're hurt," she said, kneeling before him. "I'll do it."

Standing, he could see nothing but the gypsy-thick waves of her dark hair glistening in the honey-gold glow of the lamp as they spilled over her delicate shoulders. Her loop earrings glittered brightly. He felt her quick, sure hands on his ankles. He caught the dizzying scent of her sensuous perfume. No other woman had such drowsy dark eyes; no other woman possessed this air of purity and enduring innocence that mingled with something so free, so giving.

He had always wanted her. From the first moment he'd seen her angel-sweet face and known the beauty of her smile.

He'd only meant to stop by and see her on his way from San Antonio to Houston, to inform her that Larry had not left her penniless. Grant had intended to take no more than an hour from his busy life. He had a big case to prepare for next week and his Houston project was a mess.

He hadn't expected all his old feelings for her to be stronger than before. It was only one night, he'd told her. One night alone together. Nothing to get flustered over. But his hands were shaking.

Right, he thought grimly. One night. Alone. Together.

The time stretched before him like an eternity. Every slowly kindling nerve in his body burned for her. He clenched his hands into fists.

"There." She was done.

Smiling up at him, she placed his shoes neatly beside her boots and led him through a series of icy rooms. Since the house had no halls on the lower floor, each room opened into the next. To get to the kitchen and the stairs that led to the upper story, they had to walk through her bedroom. It was large and airy-too airy on a night as cold as this one. As they passed through it, he saw a large four-poster bed, a library table full of books and magazines, and a television set. A large Christmas tree decorated with handmade red and gold ornaments stood in the corner. He caught the crisp aromatic odor of fresh spruce. There was a nativity scene sandwiched in between the books on her table.

"Why is the Christmas tree in your bedroom?" he asked.

"Because we-"