Lucy Gordon: The Italian's Christmas Miracle

‘Thank you for coming,’ Dragosaid quietly. ‘I’ve thought of youall the time. Say it was the samewith you.’

‘Oh, yes. You were always with me.’

He took her hand and they wandered higher. The trees grew more luxuriantly here, blocking out much of the light, so that the sunbeams slanted down like arrows piercing the shadows.

‘Do you recognise this place?’ he asked, stopping suddenly by a tree.

‘I can hardly believe it. It’s so beautiful now, and then it was—’

‘Another world,’ he said.

Leaning against the tree, he raised her hand so that he could brush the back of it against his cheek, hold it there for a moment, then press his lips against it.

‘I’ve been back here often since you went away,’ he said. ‘It’s where I come for peace, and even happiness.’

‘Can there be happiness?’ she asked wistfully.

‘There might be,’ he replied with a smile.

Lucy Gordoncut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days. Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA ®Award, SONG OF THE LORELEI in 1990, and HIS BROTHER’S CHILD in 1998, in the Best Traditional Romance category.

You can visit her website at www.lucy-gordon.com

Dear Reader

Being English by birth and Italian by marriage, I’ve experienced Christmas in both countries. Both celebrate the Nativity, but in Italy there is the extra festival of Epiphany, January 6th—the coming of the Three Kings, bearing gifts.

The great gift of Christmas is that with its promise of new beginnings it can heal wounds that once seemed beyond hope.

Alysa approaches Christmas full of joy at the life that’s opening up for her. Then a cruel act of betrayal snatches everything away, leaving a long, bitter road ahead.

She can only travel that road with the help of Drago, a man whose loss has been as terrible as her own. Two damaged people, they must stumble on together, supporting each other through pain that nobody else understands, hardly daring to believe the love growing between them, until they reach another Christmas with its promise of rebirth, new hope, and a life together.

May all your Christmases be happy.

Lucy Gordon

BY

LUCY GORDON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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THE Christmas lights winked down from the tree, which was hung with tinsel. It was only a small tree, and made of plastic, because the modern apartment of a successful businesswoman had room for nothing larger.

Alysa had always loved her home, its elegance and costliness affirming her triumphant career. Now, for the first time, she sensed something missing. Placing her hand over her stomach, she thought, smiling, that she knew what that something was.

Not that this was a good place for a baby. James’s home had more room, and when he knew he was to be a father he would want to finalise the marriage plans that had been vague until now. She would tell him tonight that she was pregnant.

There was one other thing to set out: a small nativity scene, showing Mary leaning protectively over the crib, her face glowing as she watched her child. Alysa had bought it on the way home as an expression of her joy.

Gently she laid it on a shelf, close to the tree so that the lights fell on it, illuminating the baby’s face. He looked up at his mother, perhaps even smiling. Alysa tried to dismiss the thought as fanciful, but it returned, whispering of happiness to come.

Why didn’t James hurry? He was an hour late, and she loved him so much, every moment in his company was precious. But he would be here soon—very soon.

For the hundredth time she checked that everything was perfect, including her appearance. For once she wore her long hair flowing freely. Usually it was pulled back and wrapped up in a chignon. She kept meaning to cut it short and adopt an austere style, suitable for her job as an accountant. But she’d always deferred the decision, possibly because she knew that her hair was her chief beauty.

She had never been pretty. Her face was attractive but, to her own critical eyes, her features were too strong for a woman.

‘No feminine graces,’ she’d often sighed. ‘Too tall, too thin. No bosom to speak of.’

Her women friends were scandalised by this casual realism. ‘What do you mean, too thin?’ they’d chorused. ‘You’ve got a figure most of us would die for. You could wear anything, just like a model.’

‘That’s what I said—too thin,’ she’d responded, determinedly practical.

But then there was the hair—rich brown, with flashes of deep gold here and dark red there, growing abundantly, streaming over her shoulders and down to her waist, making her look like some mythical heroine.

James loved her hair, which she’d been wearing down when they’d first met.

‘I couldn’t take my eyes off it,’ he’d told her afterwards. ‘One look and I began scheming to get you to bed.’

‘You mean you didn’t fall in love with my upright character and solid virtue?’ she’d teased.

‘What do you think?’

How they had laughed together, and the laughter had ended, as it always did, in passion.

‘I thought you looked like Minerva,’ he’d said once. ‘I’ve got a picture of her with flowing hair, although not as beautiful as yours.’

‘But who was she?’ asked Alysa, whose education had been practical rather than artistic.

‘She was the ancient goddess of warriors, medicine, wisdom and poetry.’

It had become his special name for her, to be used only in the darkness.

He scowled when she dressed for work, taking up her hair and donning a severe suit.

‘It’s for my job,’ she’d chided him fondly. ‘I can’t be Minerva for my clients, only for you.’

Once she’d had a couple of inches cut off, without telling him, and he’d been annoyed.

They had actually squabbled about it, she recalled now, smiling.

But tonight she’d taken care to look just as he liked—a slinky dress that took advantage of her slim figure, hair flowing down to her waist so that he could run his fingers through the cascade and bury his face in its perfumed softness. Then they would go to bed, and afterwards, as they lay in each other’s arms, she would tell him her wonderful secret.

If only he would get here soon!

CHAPTER ONE

THE cold February sunlight glittered over the place where fifteen people had died in one terrible moment.

Far below, the crowd looked up to where the hanging chairs swung over the top of the waterfall. They were newly installed, replacing the ones that had broken suddenly, tossing the screaming occupants down, down to the churning water, to be smashed on the rocks.