Ann Major - Silhouette Christmas Stories

Norie had been so upset about what happened between herself and Grant that night in Austin that she'd begun to see Larry in a more favorable light. She'd felt sorry for him for having such a materialistic mother and brother; she'd believed that was why he was so wild and unhappy. In the end she'd acted on impulse for the first time in her life and married Larry. But the marriage had never been a happy one. Not with Georgia's continual interference. Not with her threats to disinherit Larry because he'd chosen such an unsuitable bride. Not with Larry's weak, wavering nature.

They were married for two years. A month before he died, Larry had left Norie to please his mother.

It was the most horrible irony to Grant that he'd driven the only woman he'd ever loved straight into the arms of his brother who had never really cared for her.

Then, right after Larry had killed himself on his motorcycle, Norie had run off for no reason at all.

Norie didn't care about success or money. In fact, Grant wouldn't blame her if she was terrified of money and how it could twist people. She didn't care about knowing the right people, or traveling to the right places. She didn't have a single status-seeking cell in her body. She didn't know anything about fashion or fads. There was no way she could ever fit into his life. Their values were nothing alike. He needed a woman who could shine at cocktail parties, a woman who knew how to be an elegant hostess. A woman his mother could brag about to her friends.

He had had all that.

And it was empty as hell.

He wanted this woman. And he didn't care if it cost him everything he had, everything he was.

Maybe they could talk about the cookies.

The Christmas cookies really were quite interesting. Some of them were expertly painted. There were green Christmas trees with silver balls and red-and-white Santa Clauses. But some of the cookies were painted with a violent, primitive awkwardness. Grant picked up a particularly brilliant, clumsily painted cookie.

"Who painted this?"

She shut her eyes. Her voice was trembly. "A-a little friend."

He remembered Larry telling him about all the neighborhood children that flocked to their house whenever Norie was home. She'd baked for them. Larry had been bored by children.

Norie's teacup rattled again in its saucer, and she quickly changed the subject. "How did you find me?"

"Yesterday morning, I was reading the paper. There was a mention of a UIL meet in Karnes City. I read through the students' names and the names of the teachers and school personnel accompanying them. I saw Noreen Black. I'd been looking for Noreen Hale. After that all it took was a few phone calls. Imagine my amazement when I found out that you were living only fifty miles away. If you hadn't run from me yesterday, we could have settled everything then."

"Settled what?"

"Larry left you an estate, of course. Did you imagine you were penniless?"

"I don't want Larry's money." Her dark eyes flashed. "I never cared… about his money. Anyway, we were separated when he died."

"It's yours, nevertheless. I've been managing it for you ever since."

"I'm sorry to have put you to so much trouble."

His voice was velvet soft. "I didn't mind. I liked knowing I was helping you, Norie."

"I don't want your help."

His gaze roamed her shapely length as heatedly as if he touched her. She began to tremble. Then she stiffened.

"You're afraid of me," he said gently. "Why?"

"I'm not afraid." But her voice was a slender thread of sound.

"Then why did you run from me in San Antonio?"

"Grant, I… " Her throat constricted.

"I came here to help you, Norie."

"I'm perfectly fine. I-I don't need your help."

"I know that I wasn't always your friend. In the beginning Mother and I-"

"I don't need either of you," Norie pleaded desperately.

He felt just as desperate. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe we, that maybe I , need you."

"No. No… " She set the teacup down, her hands fluttering in protest. She got up and was slowly backing away from him.

"None… "

"You need to go to sleep now. I'll be back to turn off the heater later."

"Norie!"

But she was gone.

Norie was in her bed in a warm flannel nightgown, removing her heavy earrings. She picked up a book review of a children's story. But the black print blurred when she tried to read. She kept thinking of Grant. She felt a throbbing weakness in the center of her being. He seemed so hard and tough, so masculine. So sexy with every muscle rippling against the soft black cloth of that sweater. She'd always been both fascinated and disturbed by him. She still was-and he knew it.

But he was a Hale, and even if he wasn't the weakling Larry had been, he was still Georgia Hale's son.

Grant was so smooth with women, so experienced. And Norie knew next to nothing about men, especially men like him.

What did he really want with her?

One thing she knew. She had to get him out of her life before Darius returned on Sunday.

Darius! A shiver of apprehension raced coldly over her flesh.

Why hadn't she thought? She remembered the way Georgia had used her money to turn Larry against her. Georgia could be subtle; she could be ingratiating. But she liked to control everything and everybody. Especially Larry, her favorite son. If she found out that Larry had had a child, what might she do to get control of Darius? Would she use her money to destroy Norie's relationship with her own son as she had used it to destroy her marriage to Larry? What if Georgia found some way to take Darius away?

In a flash Norie threw back her covers and got up. In her bare feet she scampered across the cold floors, removing every trace of Darius-his Christmas stocking laid out in front of the tree, his gifts, his tennis shoes and socks that he'd taken off by her bed. She dashed upstairs, hid these things in his room under his bed, and pulled the door tightly shut.

And to think that after Larry's death Grant had been so grief-stricken she'd almost told him that she was pregnant.

On her way downstairs she saw the pale thread of golden light under Grant's door. The door creaked when she opened it, but Grant didn't stir. For a second longer she studied him. He was beautiful with his long inky lashes, his tanned skin, his dark unruly hair, his powerful body. He had thrown off some of his covers. She watched the steady rise and fall of his powerful shoulders. Hesitantly she tiptoed to the heater and turned the knob at the wall.

The room melted into darkness.

The room would cool down quickly, so she went to Grant's bed to arrange his covers.

She was about to go when suddenly his warm hand closed tightly over hers.

She was caught in a viselike grip.

"I-I thought you were asleep," she murmured breathlessly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm glad you did." His voice was like a hot caress. "What have you been doing? Your hand is as cold as ice."

His concern made her pulse leap. "A few household chores downstairs."

"It's a shame for a woman as lovely as you to live out here all by yourself. To have to do everything by yourself."

She couldn't answer. She felt all choked-up inside, and she was too aware of his nearness, of his warm call used hand imprisoning hers.

There was a long moment of charged silence. She caught the musky scent of him, felt the warmth of his body heat.

"Why did you run away?" he murmured. She felt his fingertips stirring her hair. "Was it because of the way I felt about you?"

"What are you saying, Grant?"

His fingers were smoothing her hair down around her neck, and she wanted nothing more than to be pulled into his arms.

"I wanted you from the first minute I saw you," he murmured huskily. "I thought you belonged to my brother. Not even that mattered."