Читать книгу Cold Feet at Christmas - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 7

“Am I dead?” Leah asked almost 16 hours later, when she finally swam back to consciousness.

She’d woken when God walked into the room. He was dressed in faded Levis and a black jersey T-shirt that clung to the muscles of his arms and torso like liquid. He looked suitably celestial, and to top it off was carrying a mug of hot chocolate. With squirty cream on top. For some reason, the words ‘squirty cream’ and ‘torso’ blended into one in Leah’s brain, resulting in images that were far too vivid to be about God. Positively blasphemous, in fact. If this was Heaven, it had been worth all those years of Sunday school…

She was cocooned in a million tog duvet, her body – naked, which she didn’t want to ponder too closely - stretching and writhing beneath the warm fabric, luxuriating in the sensation of soft, cosy heat. Her hair was dry; her fingers had regained a full range of movement, and she could even feel her long-lost toes again. As if that wasn’t enough, here he was – her saviour. Sex on a stick and bearing sinful hot beverages. She squeezed her eyes shut, gave her head a shake: Heaven. Must be. The last two days had certainly been enough like purgatory.

“I certainly hope you’re not dead,” he answered, perching on the side of the bed, long thighs stretching on forever. “Or I wasted a heck of a lot of good whiskey in this mug.”

“You’re American. I never thought God would be American…” Leah muttered, struggling to sit up straight then realising she had no clothes on and wriggling back down.

“I am,” he replied. “American that is. Not God. Although some would say I had delusions of grandeur on that front as well. Glad to see you’re feeling well enough to talk. All you did last night and the best part of today was sleep, and sometimes shout about the Hollandaise sauce curdling. Very mysterious. Would it be too much to ask a few questions? Like who you are? And how you ended up here? It’s Christmas Day. In the middle of nowhere. And you were definitely dressed for a very different kind of occasion…”

As he finished speaking, Rob saw her eyes flicker over to the hard-backed chair in the corner of the bedroom, take in the fact that her wedding dress, panties, stockings and suspenders were draped over it. He steeled himself for some kind of female hysteria. Because even he – a dumb male of the species — could tell that outfit had presumably been expected to accompany the best day of her life, not one where she nearly died and woke up in a stranger’s bed. Buck naked. He’d been trying very hard not to focus on that bit, but as soon as he thought of the words, he felt a familiar twitch in his groin that he knew could embarrass him anytime soon. Should’ve brought a copy of the paper in with him, ideally a broadsheet.

Leah was quiet for a moment, a small frown marring the milky skin of her forehead as she pieced together the parts of the puzzle. He expected only one possible conclusion: tears, screaming, and possibly physical violence.

Roberto Cavelli took a deep breath in, coiling his muscles ready to run for cover if needed. There was a time to fight, and a time to hide in the broom cupboard, and a wise man knows the difference. Over-emotional women had him sitting on the sweeper every time. He’d leave the cocoa, and run for his life.

Instead, she looked back at him, and smiled. Just like that. A big, gorgeous, open-hearted smile. No shouting. No screaming. No tears. Not even a quivering lower lip. He exhaled, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Wow. Maybe she really was from Santa…

“My name’s Leah Harvey,” she said, sticking her hand out to shake. She kept the rest of her body covered up, managing to awkwardly extend one warm, soft-skinned arm and still look cute. He took her hand in his. It was rude to refuse a handshake, and the Cavelli boys had been raised right.

With the first touch of those soft fingers, he knew he’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t be touching this woman at all, even in a hazmat suit. Not with her all warm and curvy, and nude, under those covers. And him with a rapidly developing Crotch Crisis of the first degree. He was going to come across as an utter pervert, damn it.

As her hand clung to his, a tiny spark shot right up his wrist, crawling under his skin like electricity. She felt it too. He could tell by the way she jumped at the sensation. It made the bits of her showing above the duvet jiggle around in a way that did nothing to deter Mr Happy down below. Rob pulled away as quickly as was polite, and crossed his legs.

“Ooh! Did you feel that?” Leah said, giggling and rubbing her wrist. “Must be some kind of weird static thing!”

Yeah. That’d be it, he thought, watching with way too much interest as she manoeuvred herself upright, clutching the sheets in front of her breasts. Her creamy cleavage was mainly hidden by the bedding, but not quite enough to stop a slight spillage of generous flesh over fabric.

Lord, think of something disgusting, he said to himself. Like your brother’s sweaty jock strap. Like your 98-year-old Great Aunt Mimi in a bikini. Anything but that killer body in front of you. Not that he hadn’t seen it all last night when he’d put her to bed – but that had felt different. That was for medicinal purposes only. He was merely applying correct first aid by stripping her bare of those sodden clothes, that was all. And anyway, he did most of it with the lights off, averting his eyes like a gentleman. None of which had been easy.

“So, what’s your name?” she asked, her pink tongue peeking out from between generous lips to lick the cream off the top of her drink. Aunt Mimi, Aunt Mimi, Aunt Mimi.

“Rob,” he snapped, sounding a little more terse than he planned. He’d never liked Aunt Mimi. Nasty old coot.

“Okay…Rob. Well, yesterday I was supposed to get married.”

“Yeah. My eagle-eyed powers of deduction told me that. Wedding dress and all,” he said, nodding towards the now distressed gown hanging limply over the chair back. Leah looked at it and sighed.

“Well, it was supposed to be the whole fairytale deal, you know? Remote Scottish castle. Handsome prince. The only problem was I discovered the handsome prince – Doug — playing hide the sausage with one of the bridesmaids an hour before the service.”

“Hide the sausage?” he said, eyebrows raised, slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. A mouth, Leah thought, that looked as sinful as his hot beverages. Her eyes lingered on the way his lips curved upwards on one side, like they were asking a question. Wide and full and firm and utterly kissable. Not like Doug’s. He had skinny lips. Like his face was so mean it couldn’t even spare the flesh. Funny how she’d never noticed that until yesterday. Somehow, seeing him upended in a pile of taffeta had revealed all kinds of little flaws.

“Yes. I’m sure you get the picture. And believe me, he wasn’t wearing anything under his kilt either.”

“That’s… bad. You must be devastated.”

Rob stared at her, thinking as he did that she looked the exact opposite of devastated: to him, she looked all silky blonde hair; wide amber eyes, smiling lips. Lips that were now covered in a cream moustache that he’d dearly like to lick off. There was no sign of impending nervous breakdown, which in itself was off-putting. She’d caught her fiancé cheating; abandoned her wedding, and ended up almost dead on his doorstep – yet seemed calm and content. Maybe he should call the paramedics.

“I know,” she said. “It is bad. As bad as it gets. And I should be devastated, shouldn’t I? I did what any sane woman would – ran away. Grabbed his car keys and legged it. It was only when the bloody thing broke down across that continent of a field last night I realised I might have been a bit hasty. All I have with me is a bag, a phone with no charger, and some make up. Hence my rather bizarre appearance last night. If I’m honest, Rob, which I always try to be, I ran because I realised I just didn’t care.

“It should have broken my heart to see his scrawny little backside pumping up and down on top of Becky, but it didn’t. I actually felt nothing but relief. It was like something inside me needed to see it, to make me come to my senses. I didn’t want to marry him at all. It was more of a wake-up call than a heartbreak. Plus, you know, the whole almost dying of hypothermia thing – it does put things into perspective. I’m alive. I’m warm. I’m drinking hot chocolate and whiskey – very nice, by the way – none of which I expected to be doing last night.”

“Perhaps you’re in shock,” he suggested. “And you’ll start your meltdown any minute now.”

She raised an eyebrow, seemed to ponder the idea.

“Yes,” she replied. “You could well be right. But don’t worry – I’ll give you some advance notice if I feel it coming on, and you can make sure you’re doing something more attractive, like pulling out your own toenails. Right now, though, I feel quite weirdly calm. I’m worrying about the practical things – what happens next. I work with him. For him, really. We share a home, a car. An iTunes account. Everything. And I left it all behind like it was nothing. The only problem was, my great escape—”

“Landed you here. With a man you don’t know. On Christmas Day.”

“Yep. Oops-a-daisy. I’m sorry if I’ve intruded; if I’ve put you out in any way. And I’m really embarrassed I did a swooner on you as well. Damsel in distress and all that – not usually my style. But I was so cold, and you were so warm.”

And gorgeous, Leah continued in her mind. And tall. And hunky. Shoulders so wide they filled the doorframe. Legs so long he could probably leap mountains in a single stride. She could have been hallucinating it all last night, but in the warm light of day, he was even better looking: those velvet brown eyes, completely unreadable. That stubble-coated jaw you could strike a match on. Large hands, wrapped around his own mug, fingers oh-so-long. Denim-clad thighs you could so easily see wrapped around you. He was the sexiest man she’d ever seen, and even looking at him was a sensual feast. She could only imagine what touching would be like. His name might be Rob – but she was sticking with God.

And God, she suddenly noticed, was wearing a wedding ring. In fact, he’d put his mug down and was turning the gold band around and around on his finger, twisting it so hard it must have hurt. Ah. He must have been able to read her mind when she was having inappropriate thoughts about him. Or maybe she’d just dribbled. And now, he was sending her a message: back off, taken man.

Received, understood, and undoubtedly for the best, she decided. She was insane to even be thinking of him in that light – right now she should have been starting life as Mrs Anderson, on honeymoon in St Lucia. Instead she was eyeing up tall, dark and gorgeous here, and wondering if he fancied slipping under the duvet for a quick game of tonsil tennis. Maybe she’d taken a bang to the head when she collapsed. Maybe she was experiencing some weird kind of frost-related hormone rush. Maybe she had an undiagnosed multiple personality disorder and would start speaking in fluent Finnish any minute now.

He wasn’t even her usual type. Way too big and broad and dark and foreign and sexy. For God’s sake, what woman in her right mind would fancy that? She suppressed a giggle, and started to wonder if the concussion angle might be real. She couldn’t ever remember having this kind of physical response to a strange man before. In fact, to any man at all. It was completely out of character, but nobody seemed to have told her body that. Her body was convinced that he was its very best friend, and was getting all warm and squishy to prove it.

Even though he was now practically scowling at her, she still had the urge to reach out and touch his jawline, run her fingernails over the stubble and see if it prickled; to trace the bold outline of those lips with her tongue…MARRIED, she shouted at herself. Silently. Even if her body had lost all moral fibre, she wasn’t going to start ravishing married men. He could still be a serial killer anyway, even if he did have the looks of a slightly fallen angel.

The way he was looking at her right now, for example, was unsettling. There was quite a lot of Leah on show, she realised, which didn’t bother her. She had no problems with body image, and could count her inhibitions on one hand. But his eyes were so dark; his pupils large and black and focused so intensely on hers that she started to feel breathless. Neither of them was speaking, but the air between them seemed to sing, to thrum with some kind of energy. Even the expression on his chiselled face was creating a throbbing pulse between her legs. If someone lit a match, the room would go kaboom, there was so much spark.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said finally, his voice clipped and short and tense. For a moment she couldn’t recall what she’d even said. Oh yes. An apology for disturbing him. Swooning on him. Drooling on him. Fantasising about him.

“There are women’s clothes in the wardrobe,” he snapped. “I think you’ll be way too big for them, though. If you are you’ll have to use something of mine.”

Right, Leah thought, nodding and smiling as best she could. Thanks a million, mate. That comment definitely slowed the pulse rate down a beat or two: nothing like being called a heifer by an attractive man to kill the mood. She knew she was more voluptuous than was fashionable these days, but she’d never had hang-ups. Men seemed to like it, too. Doug certainly had, until he’d decided he preferred the bridesmaid. But after those marvellously chosen words from Rob, she felt about as feminine as a prop forward for the England rugby team. Too big for women’s clothes. Wear something of his. Surely the fool realised that his clothes would swamp her, D-cups notwithstanding? Stupid idiot man.

This particular stupid idiot man seemed to realise he’d said something wrong, as he frowned, glowered, and stood up abruptly. He marched out of the room, absently running his hands through his hair and murmuring something about needing to chop down some trees. He was still muttering as the door slammed shut behind him.

Okay, thought Leah, scampering out of bed and darting through the chilly air to the wardrobe. Weird situation, but deal with it. So he’s moody. Probably some eccentric artist type, holed up here in a stone cottage on his own for Christmas. Without his wife…What kind of a wife would let a man like that out of her sight for any length of time anyway?

None of your business, she reminded herself firmly, holding up a pair of jeans that would never in a million years fit her. Surely they were made for a child, not a full-grown woman? No way her hips and bottom would shoehorn themselves into that thimble-full of denim. He must be married to a midget. Okay, that wasn’t fair. Speaking as a woman who only topped five foot on a big hair day, Leah knew there was nothing wrong with being vertically challenged.

But this midget must also be really skinny. The kind who made a single pomegranate seed last all day, with one low-fat raisin for pudding. The bitch.

She had better luck with a pair of stretchy leggings, and a plain long-sleeved white T-shirt. Admittedly it looked like it was sprayed on, and there was no bra anywhere near her size. The wedding dress had some kind of industrial strength cantilever device built in, robust enough to support the Forth Bridge, never mind her boobs.

Now she had nothing, unless she wanted to wander round like Miss Haversham all day, in a dirty, torn bridal gown. Yet another genius move on her part. If only she’d known she’d be doing a runner from her own wedding, she’d have packed an overnight bag. She’d kill for her own knickers right now.

She turned and stared into the mirror, examining her ensemble. Oh well, she thought, I am most definitely a beggar, and therefore can’t afford to be a chooser. And anyway, you can’t really see my nipples. Not unless you look really hard. Or they start to misbehave in the cold. She tugged and pulled at her hair, trying to dislodge some of the dried-on product that had moulded it around her tiara, and decided that was as good as it was going to get.

“Hey, Rob?” she shouted as she emerged back into the living area. “Are you still in here? Are you chopping down trees, and if not, can I use your phone? Mine’s out of juice and I really need to organise getting out of here.”

Getting out of here and getting home as quickly as possible, she decided, was today’s mission impossible. Yesterday’s had been escape, and later survival. Now she had to move on. To London. To their flat. To get whatever she needed and leave, before she had to face Doug again. To disappear to Timbuktu. Take a midnight train to Georgia. Join a commune in Marrakesh. Become a nun – if they took nuns in when they were 25. Whatever it took to save her dignity and spare them both the useless recriminations. Some relationships simply weren’t fixable. Funny how she’d not even admitted to herself it was broken until yesterday. Years of limping along, so used to the problems that they’d become normal. That would hurt at some point, she knew, but not now. Now she needed to be practical.

“There’s no signal here,” Rob said, emerging from the kitchen, holding a tea towel. He’d obviously decided to dry the dishes before he went logging. He stopped dead in front of her, and stared like she’d grown a third eye.

“What?” she said, feeling alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“That…that top.”

“Oh! That. I know. You were right about the clothes. It doesn’t really fit, does it?”

“No,” he replied, still staring. “You’re more…” he trailed off, making vague body-shape gestures in the air with his hands.

“More what?” she asked. Voice quiet. Hands on hips. Eyes narrowed. Oh-oh, Rob thought, recognising that tone. Danger, danger. Tread carefully, lost soul, or you may never pee straight again.

“More…womanly?” he said, looking at her cautiously, one eyebrow raised in a question. She nodded, seemed happy enough with that, thank God. He came here every year for peace and quiet, and he could do without a cat fight with someone he barely knew to bring in the festive season.

Although, he thought, taking another look at that T-shirt and what jiggled beneath, there were some parts of her he was getting to know quite well already. Maybe he’d become immune with repeated exposure, like with flu or chicken pox. Or maybe, a faint stirring in his nether regions told him, not.

“I can see your nipples through that material,” he said, dragging his eyes away. “I think that’s probably illegal. And if not, it should be.”

“Oh,” she replied, looking down at her own chest, realising that even his glance had made the nipples in question do some quite embarrassing things. She looked back up, blushing. “I didn’t think you could see unless you looked really really hard.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a man,” he said. “And it’s in our nature to always look at these things really really hard.”

Leah laughed out loud, throwing her head back so the creamy skin of her throat was exposed.

Rob, being still male, couldn’t help but notice the way the movement made her breasts jut out just a fraction more as she filled her lungs with air and giggled. He wanted to pull that skin-tight T-shirt up, and bury his face in them. Lord, how was he expected to resist her? Should he even try? Where had this sudden attack of morality come from anyway? Must be a Christmas thing. He’d been infected with goodness. Hopefully it was only temporary. He was only flesh and blood, after all.

“I had actually noticed you’re a man,” she said, liquid amber eyes running over his body, taking a lazy inventory of what she saw. Slowly she looked him up and down: legs that seemed as long as her whole body; Levis clinging low to his hips; the curved ridge of pectoral muscles evident through the jersey top. Powerful shoulders, biceps that flexed even as she looked…Gosh, he was an absolute treat. She stared, licked her lips, and filed the image away in her brain. Under S for Sexbomb.

He might be married, but that hadn’t made her blind. She couldn’t be the only woman who noticed how handsome he was, and anyway, there was no harm in window shopping. Look, but don’t touch: the same theory she had for the Stella McCartney shop in Selfridges. Except, in this case, it was harder to resist. She couldn’t help wondering if those biceps were as firm as they looked, if that chest was as hard and sculpted as it seemed under the long-sleeved T; how that backside would feel snuggled into the grip of her hands. Whether the tell-tale bulge she could see in his jeans was as promising as the ever-tightening denim suggested. Her eyes lingered low, and she had the suspicion the answer to that one was a resounding ‘yes’.

Stop it, Leah Harvey, she told herself. Look at his ring finger instead. Left hand. He’s married. To an anorexic dwarf. And anyway, this is not the time for new romance. Or even hot, dirty sex. Your life’s in tatters. The man you were about to spend the rest of your years with is a philandering pig. You have no job. No home. No money. And you’re supposed to have a broken heart.

Except it wasn’t exactly her heart she could feel beating right now. It was something lower, and altogether more primal. She gazed into those dark brown eyes, and had the sense they could stand like that forever, both of them feeling that same beat, both of them frozen in time. They’d be discovered in hundreds of years’ time by archaeologist; sexually frustrated mannequins, looking but never touching.

Rob broke eye contact first. He shook his head like a wet dog shedding rain, and murmured something so indistinct it sounded to her like ‘Aunt Mimi’. He looked instead out of the window, into the distance. The fields for miles around were white with virgin snow, with more still falling, drifting to the ground like cotton wool buds made of crystal.

“No mobile signal,” he repeated. “No landline. No internet. Roads unpassable. And the front door’s barely opening, there’s been so much snowfall overnight.”

“Just you and me then?” she asked.

“Yes. You and me and the snow.”

“Right. Have you got a shovel?”