Читать книгу Scrooge and the Single Girl - Christine Rimmer - Страница 11

Jilly noticed with a high degree of satisfaction that Will didn’t seem to have anything more to say. There was a long silence, one that crackled with mutual hostility.

Finally, he muttered, “Are you through now?”

“Oh, absolutely. I am done, concluded, finished in the truest sense of the word—and may I please go take care of my coat?”

“Be my guest.”

Her head high and her shoulders back, Jilly headed for the bathroom, shutting the door good and hard when she got in there, and then catching sight of her self in the cracked full-length mirror on the back of that door. What she saw was not encouraging. Her hair gave new meaning to the words matted and stringy. The knot on the right side of her forehead was turning a very unflattering shade of magenta.

Jilly wished a lot of things right then, as she stared at her pitiful reflection in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She wished she’d just written the piece Frank had asked for in the first place. Certainly wandering the club scene, guzzling Cosmopolitans, listening to tired pick-up lines couldn’t be worse than this. She wished she’d never called Celia about finding a cabin, wished she’d taken a pass on the suggestion that she get a hold of Caitlin—and yes, she had been reluctant, after what she’d heard at Jane’s party. She wished she’d gone with that reluctance and never picked up the phone.

As a matter of fact, she couldn’t wait to get home, to spend Christmas with her own family, after all. Next to what she’d been through up here at Mad Mavis’s ramshackle old house, she was actually looking forward to having her mother and her two very married sisters sending her the usual pitying looks, dropping subtle hints about how much happier she’d be if she found someone special, had a baby and did something worthwhile with her life for a change.

But wait. What was this?

Looked like a serious case of Poor Me, oh yes it did. And though Jillian Diamond had a number of faults, wallowing around in self-pity was not one of them.

Jilly straightened her shoulders again and carefully smoothed a few straggling strands of hair away from her injury. Okay, it was ugly. But it could have been much worse. And her hair would look a hundred percent better once she’d taken a brush to it.

Too bad her brush was upstairs….

But later for that. First things first. Her coat required attention.

The bathroom lacked the usual white porcelain sink. Instead, two deep concrete laundry sinks lined the outside wall, a long window above them. Jilly turned to the sinks and flipped on the cold water.

As she moistened and blotted the soft suede of her stained coat, she decided that she didn’t feel so low, after all. There was something about telling a person the one thing you would have sworn you’d never confess to them that was very freeing. Somehow, it didn’t even matter that he hadn’t apologized. His response wasn’t important.

Jilly bent over her coat, dabbing and blotting. To be fair, she would have to say that he had looked just a little bit embarrassed at what a complete jerk he’d been. She found that appropriate. He should be embarrassed.

“There,” she said under her breath, holding up the coat and examining her handiwork. “Best I can do until I can get it to the cleaners.”

She took the coat back out through the kitchen and hung it at the door, taking scrupulous care not to look in Will’s direction. Next, she padded over to the little table by the sofa bed and collected her empty water glass, the bloodstained cloth and the ice pack. She washed the glass, rinsed out the cloth and hung it over one of the bathroom sinks. She emptied the ice pack, leaving it, with the glass, in the dish drainer to dry.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a long, hot soak in that clawfoot bathtub. But it was Will’s house—more or less. Somehow, she felt it would be nothing short of rude just to get out her bath salts and fill up the tub without asking him first. And since the last thing she wanted to do was speak to him again, the bath was out. She carried her boom box and CDs upstairs and came back down with her vanity kit. She cleaned her face, brushed her teeth and did what she could with her hideous hair.

Finally, there was Missy to deal with. Jilly carried the litter box and water bowl upstairs. Then she went to get the cat.

As Jilly had feared, Missy was reluctant to leave the newfound object of her inexplicable devotion, but Jilly tempted her with a few cat treats and that was the end of that. She closed the door to the kitchen before she carried the cat up the stairs.

As soon as Jilly put her down, Missy took off. Jilly shrugged and got out her lovely soft micro-fleece pajamas with the blue and yellow stripes on the bottoms and cheerful daisies on the top. She was pulling them on when Missy started crying from the foot of the stairs.

Too bad. She’d get over it.

Jilly slid her Ray Charles Spirit of Christmas CD into the boom box, turned the volume low enough that it wouldn’t disturb the Grinch downstairs, and got out the three novels she’d brought.

There were two juicy romances and a nail-biting thriller. She chose the thriller. She had no desire at all to read about men and women working out their problems, enjoying great sex and finding lasting love. Not tonight, anyway.

Jilly got under the covers, plumped the pillows against her back and started reading. Eventually, Missy quit meowing pathetically at the stairway door. She appeared at the side of the bed, jumped up next to Jilly, curled in a ball and went to sleep. Outside, the wind wailed and the snow blew against the window, making a sound like someone tapping to get in.

The CD ended. Jilly hardly noticed. The thriller certainly did deliver the goods. It was a tale of a serial killer who murdered young women in various gruesome ways. He broke in on them late at night—they all lived in isolated houses—and no one heard their terrified screams.

The book was probably a bad choice, in hindsight. One of those books that shouldn’t be read at night, in the dim attic bedroom of a house rumored to be haunted, with the wind howling outside and a view of a dingy curtain with pineapples on it—pineapples that, somehow, had begun to resemble ghostly faces, grinning malevolently.

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” Jilly whispered aloud as she marked her place in the book and set it aside for the night. She was safe in a warm bed. No deranged serial killer lurked outside—and if one did, he certainly should be frozen to death by now. The pineapples in the curtain were not evil faces. Mad Mavis was long gone. And Jilly did not believe in ghosts.

But just to be on the safe side, she left the lamp on. She turned away from the light and snuggled down with Missy purring at her back.

Her headache, she realized, was completely gone. She allowed herself a smug little smile. Take that, Will Bravo. No brain damage for this girl. She yawned.

It wasn’t long at all before she drifted off to sleep.

Jilly woke some time later. She was lying on her stomach with her face buried in the pillow.

She lifted her head, blinked, and looked out the window above the bed.

The clouds had cleared. The storm was over. A full moon shone in on her, casting a magical, silvery light through the narrow attic room.

And wait a minute. The lamp was off. Odd. Hadn’t she left it on?

Jilly pushed herself to her knees and brushed her sleep-tangled hair from her eyes. She picked up her watch from the nightstand and peered at it.

Midnight, on the nose.

Jilly set the watch down and turned over, dragging herself up to a sitting position. She saw Missy, then. The cat was sitting at the end of the bed, golden eyes gleaming eerily in the moonlight, watching her. Jilly stretched out a hand.

And Missy vanished—or rather, she faded away, first becoming transparent and then, poof, gone. Just like that.

Jilly pondered her cat’s Cheshire-like disappearance. All was not as it should be.

And who was that skinny old woman standing at the foot of the bed, the one in the quilted blue bathrobe and the ruffled hairnet, the one with the face that vaguely resembled Caitlin Bravo’s? The one with Will’s blue, blue eyes?

“Mavis?”

The old woman nodded. Imagine that. First, her cat literally faded away. And now she was being treated to a visitation from Mad Mavis McCormack.

“This is a dream, right?”

Mad Mavis smiled. For such an old, wrinkled woman, she had surprisingly white, straight teeth. She stepped forward—right through the bed—and held out her hand.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jilly said.

But Mavis just went on standing there, her lower half disappearing into the bed, holding out that bony hand until Jilly looked down and discovered that she’d taken that hand, after all.

The walls around them were melting, the bed disappearing. Jilly closed her eyes.

When she opened them, she and Mavis still held hands, but now they stood side-by-side. There was another bed in front of them. A man lay sleeping on that bed, facing away from them. Jilly knew who the man was even before she noticed the curtain on the other side of the bed—the one that led to the living area and was printed with palm trees.

“Mavis, I am begging you,” Jilly whispered. “Don’t do this to me. Okay, maybe for a minute or two, for a fraction of a nanosecond, I might have been attracted to him. But not anymore. It’s really over, you know? I mean, it never even got started. I don’t want anything to do with him. I just want to forget he even exists. And I most certainly don’t want him taking up space in my dreams.”

Mavis began fading backward, her skinny old hand passing out of Jilly’s grip without either of then actually letting go. She floated toward the corner of the room, drifting past the ladder-back rocker under the window, insinuating herself between the far wall and an old dresser with a yellowed lace runner and a streaked mirror in a heavily carved frame.

“Mavis,” Jilly hissed. “I am so not happy about this.”

From the shadows between the dresser and the wall, Mavis gazed at Jilly, mournful reproach in those big, blue eyes.

“Mavis. Let me make myself perfectly clear.” Jilly raised her voice to a shout. “Get me out of here!”

But Mavis only stood there—well, hovered there, really. Her pale, bony toes—just visible behind the dark shape of the dresser—didn’t quite seem to be touching the floor.

Jilly looked at the dream-Will, lying there on the bed, sound asleep. Her shouting hadn’t disturbed him in the least. He turned over with a sigh, but didn’t open his eyes.

Okay. She’d admit it. With his eyes closed, not scowling, Will Bravo was a hunk and a half. In this dream of hers, he slept nude—or at least, nude from the waist up. She couldn’t tell about the rest of him. The blankets covered that. He had shoulders for days. And beautiful, muscled arms…

“No. Not. No way.” Jilly blinked furiously in an effort to make the sleeping, too-tempting Will vanish. He didn’t. She insisted, as if anyone was listening, “I said I’m not interested, and I am a woman who says just what she means.” She whirled toward the corner where Mavis should have been hovering. “You had better get me out of—”

But the old woman was gone.

“Jilly.” The deep, lazy voice came from behind her.

“Oh, no. Forget it. I am not turning around.”

“Jilly…”

“I am not going to look. I am not even going to…” Well, all right, maybe just one little glance.

She sneaked a quick peek. He was sitting up, holding out his fine, long-fingered hand to her, looking at her tenderly, pleadingly. “Jilly.”

She gave in and faced him fully. “All right, what?”

He wiggled his fingers at her in a come-hither gesture.

“You can’t be serious.”

He stared deeply, meaningfully, into her eyes as the sheet, of its own accord, slithered back from his fabulous naked body. Jilly tore her gaze away from those pleading blue eyes and looked lower. Wow. Some dream.

She looked up again, into those tender, pleading eyes and a disembodied voice from somewhere near her left ear said, “Why not?”

“Why not?” she cried. “You’ve got to be kidding. He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him.”

“Jilly,” said the disembodied voice. “Don’t you get it? This isn’t real. It isn’t happening. So what if you hate each other in real life? This isn’t real life. This is only a dream.”

Jilly considered. While she did that, the dream-Will conveniently froze in place—with his hand out and the covers down to his muscular thighs, looking at her longingly, his manliest attribute pointing proudly ceiling-ward.

“Hmm,” said Jilly. It was clear that in this dream he found her overwhelmingly attractive. And she had to admit she really did enjoy having him look at her that way.

Why not just go with it? Why pass up a chance to have him falling all over her for one magical night? Why deny herself? This was one situation where she could do anything she wanted, let this fantasy spin out wherever it wanted to go, and suffer absolutely no consequences after the fact.

There was no “fact.” She wasn’t here. She was upstairs, sound asleep, dreaming all this.

“Okay,” she announced. “I’ve decided. I’m going with this.”

Nobody answered. And Will continued to sit there, still as a statue.

Jilly cleared her throat. “Uh. Hello? Will?”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t even appear to be breathing. She clapped her hands. Twice.

Nothing.

Terrific. What fun was this going to be?

But wait. This was her dream. There had to be some way to—

And it came to her. She put her hand in his.

The room faded and reformed and she found herself on the bed with him, wrapped in those big arms of his.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispered. “For so long.” Jilly thought that was carrying the fantasy a little too far, but before she could tell him so, he asked, “You’ll help me out, won’t you?”

She pulled back a little and peered up at him. “Uh. Help you out, how?”

He didn’t answer her question, just gathered her close again, rested his cheek against her hair, and repeated what he’d said before. “Help me, Jilly.”

“But—”

“Help me out. God, do I need it.”

She pulled back again, intending to explain to him that he really had to get a little more specific or she didn’t see how there was much she could do. But before she could say anything, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Good googly-moogly, what a kiss!

He almost burned her lips off. It honestly felt as if steam was coming out of her ears.

When he finally let her come up for air, she realized that her pjs had melted away. She was every bit as naked as he was.

Only a dream, she reminded herself. Only a dream. Enjoy, enjoy…

He guided her back onto the bed, kissing her as they went down. Somehow, it seemed he was kissing her everywhere, every part of her body, all at the same time—her mouth, her neck, lower, and lower still.

Omigoodness. Yes, yes, yes!

His lips were everywhere, all at once. And his hands, well, they were magic hands. He touched every inch of her, found all her most secret, most vulnerable places.

She moaned and she cried out, closing her eyes….

When she looked again, they were joined together. The bed, the room, everything was gone—everything but the two of them. They moved as one, floating in some warm, soft, enveloping space in the middle of nowhere, all wrapped up in each other, arms and legs entwined. She felt stunned by her own intense pleasure. Everything in that warm place seemed to glow. They glowed, Jilly and her fantasy lover, rolling and rippling, rising and falling, forever and ever….

Jilly closed her eyes again.

And they were back in his bedroom, lying contentedly side-by-side. He captured her hand, brought it to his mouth and pressed those wonderful lips of his to the back of it. She actually felt his breath on her skin.

Without stopping to think, she did it again, let her eyes drift shut.

And that time, when she opened them, she found herself lying in the bed upstairs, dressed in her fuzzy pjs once more.

Will had not come with her. Sweet old Mavis was tucking her in, bending close, smiling slightly, blue eyes mysterious and maybe a little bit sad.