Grace Green - A Miracle For Christmas

‘Just cream. Thanks.’

He was halfway to the nearest chair, when he started to wobble.

Stephanie frowned. ‘Are you all right? You look—’

He started to keel over.

In a flash she was at his side, grasping his arm, trying to steady him. Might as well have been a tug nudging a listing freighter! she thought as she felt his powerful body sag against her slender frame...yet her support seemed to do the trick. He steadied and threw an arm around her shoulders. The arm was lifeless, and so heavy she thought she might crumple under its weight. She didn’t.

‘Should have stayed in bed,’ he muttered.

‘Let’s get you back upstairs then.’ Her breath came out in a series of strained grunts. ‘Here, turn around.’

The maneuvre was a complicated one and they somehow got all tangled up, she trying to guide him one way, he starting to turn the other. He lost his balance, and she was unable to keep him from toppling backward, and still under the weight of his arm, she found herself reeling with him. They ended up together, over by the door, their progress halted abruptly when they clattered against the wall. His back was to it, his arm was around her as if a trap.

And her palms were pressed against his chest.

She could feel the erratic hammering of his heart under her fingertips; could feel the texture of his hairroughened skin, slick with sweat. She thought she felt his eyes on her. It was an uncomfortable sensation.

She jerked her head up. His head was angled back against the wall, but he was slanting his gaze down toward her, through lashes that were almost closed. Gorgeous lashes. Thick, as black as soot, and turning up ever so slightly at the ends—

‘My,’ he drawled, ‘you are a pretty one!’

She could barely see his eyes; his eyelids were drooping even as he spoke. He was, she realized, on the verge of flaking out

‘And you,’ she retorted as she hauled his arm even more securely around her shoulders, ‘are not!’

His chuckle had a cracked sound. ‘And that’s the truth—’

‘Let’s get you through to the other room and onto a sofa—’

‘Up to bed...’

‘No, you’ll never make it. For heaven’s sake, just do as you’re told.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

They staggered together through to the living area, where Stephanie steered him over to the long sofa where she’d spent the night. Seconds before he toppled sideways onto it, she whisked off the duvet she’d left there earlier. His head landed on the pillow; and even before it did, his eyes were closed.

‘Cover me,’ he said in a fast-fading voice. ‘I’m freezing...’

Stephanie was only too glad to throw the duvet over him. She had never seen such a magnificent male body, and it seemed almost voyeurish to stare, though she did...for just a moment...before she covered him. Caveman type, she decided, with his overly long hair, unshaven face, rugged features, powerful physique; a type that had never appealed to her...but he seemed harmless enough.

‘Your coffee,’ she said; ‘would you like me to...’

But she saw he was already out of it.

Exhausted from the effort she’d put into getting him where he was, she threw herself down into the nearest chair and looked at him broodingly.

Why, she wondered, was he here alone? And especially at this time of year, when families gathered together, drawn by love, memories and layers of tradition.

She herself couldn’t wait to get home.

But this man didn’t believe in Christmas. She frowned as she remembered the words he’d spoken to her the night before. Go away, he’d growled. I don’t do Christmas.

She hugged her arms around herself, and leaned forward in her seat, toward the sofa. Why? she wanted to ask the man lying there. Why don’t you do Christmas?

Even in sleep he looked forbidding. It was the scowl, of course. It was deeply etched, and looked as if it might be a permanent fixture on that hard male face. Her gaze became drawn inexorably to his mouth. The lips...though they were slightly parted she could detect a firmness there, that spoke of control...but along with that firmness was a sensuality, that spoke of something else.

She sighed.

He stirred, and murmured something that sound like ‘Ashley...’ and then settled back into sleep.

He didn’t waken again till early afternoon.

Damian remembered telling her that morning that she was pretty. He had been wrong. Now, half-awake and unnoticed, he scrutinized her as she sat curled up on the sofa across from his, engrossed in a magazine. She had changed into an emerald green sweater and navy stretch pants, and her hair was tied back with an emerald green velvet ribbon. His lidded gaze took in the delicacy of her bone structure, the sweet curve of her lips, the copper highlights in her hair. She was more than pretty, he reflected; she was beautiful. The subtle kind of beauty that could sneak up on a man if he wasn’t careful, and steal his heart. If he believed in Christmas, he would also believe in miracles, and he would believe she’d been sent to him, meant for him...

A Christmas miracle.

But if he believed in anything it was that Christmas, and miracles, were for other men. Never for him.

He cleared his throat. ‘You’re still here?’

She looked up, closed the magazine and laid it on the cushion beside her. ‘Mmm.’ Her full pink lips hovered between a grimace and a pout. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘On the mend.’

‘Good.’

He stretched, and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘What day is it?’

‘The twenty-fourth.’

His grin was wry. ‘Already? So...where were you making for last night, when you ended up in my snowbank?’

‘Home for Christmas.’ She was wearing dangling silver earrings; earrings with a dark green stone that picked up the color of her eyes. As she lifted her shoulders in a shrug, the earrings swung and briefly touched her pale neck, the silver glinting in the light. ‘I’m not expected till today—I was going to surprise them by coming early.’

‘Them? Your family?’

‘Mmm. They all live in Rockfield. Two grandmothers, two parents, several aunts and uncles, four brothers and their wives and an assortment of nieces and nephews ranging from a newborn baby with colic, to a teenage boy with acne and raging hormones.’

Family. Boy, did this woman ever have a family. Envy pierced him. ‘And you’ve brought only one teddy bear?’

Her laugh had the clear tinkle of water gurgling over white pebbles in a brook. ‘Of course not. I’ve loads more presents in the van.’ For a moment, as she spoke, her eyes had sparkled, but as he watched, the sparkle faded. With a barely concealed sigh, she got up from the sofa, crossed to the window and hugged her arms around herself. She was looking out, but there could be little to see but the falling snow. She stood still for a long while. Silence filled the room, except for the occasional howl of the wind outside, the frequent blatter of snowflakes against the window.

She wiped the fingertips of her right hand over the mist her breath had made on the pane. He saw her shift restlessly; flick back her ponytail.

‘You’re anxious to get going,’ he said.

She turned. Her expression was strained. ‘I phoned Grantham Towing again while you were asleep and they won’t be sending anyone out till the storm’s over and the side road’s been ploughed. I may be stuck here for another night.’

He shoved back the duvet and got up. He swayed a little, but as she moved toward him, he steadied himself. ‘I’m okay,’ he reassured her. ‘Just dizzy there for a sec.’ He crossed over to where she was standing and held out his hand. ‘Damian McAllister.’

‘Stephanie Redford.’ He noticed that her fingertips still retained the damp from the windowpane, but her skin was soft. Now she was close, and he was conscious again of her perfume. Faint and elusive, yet intensely disturbing, it made him think of moss and roses...and slow sensual kisses.