Читать книгу A Miracle For Christmas - Grace Green, Grace Green - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

DAMIAN MCALLISTER groaned, and with a feeling of utter despair, buried his stubbled face deep into his pillow.

‘Go away.’ His muffled entreaty came out hoarsely. ‘For God’s sake...go away and leave me alone...’

The hammering and the bell-ringing—loud, persistent, demanding—continued unabated... perhaps even with renewed vigor...and the bell shrill enough to waken the dead. Which was exactly what he wished he was...

At first he’d thought the sounds existed only in his head, another torture inflicted on him by the flu that had grabbed him by the throat the day he left Boston and had brought him to his knees, literally, when he reached his destination and staggered from his car to the front door.

And now that door, he surmised with another, deeper groan, was going to crash in at any moment. Whatever his visitor wanted, it was patently obvious he had no intention of leaving till he got it.

Better get up and get it over with.

It took him a few minutes to crawl out of bed, find a pair of jeans, drag them on, zip them up, with curses erupting all the while. Keeping himself vertical by grabbing one piece of furniture after the next, he stumbled to the bedroom door. Descending the stairs might present more of a challenge, he acknowledged grimly. But he made it, though by the time he got to the last step, he was more than ready to call it a day. Or a night? He’d left all the lights on when he arrived on Tuesday, and now he could see blackness pressing in through the ground-floor windows.

He lurched across the hall and fell against the front door, hitting it with his shoulder. As he dragged back the dead bolt, the bell shrilled again, paining his eardrums.

‘Hang on,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t be so damned impatient.’

He flung open the door.

And two things happened at once.

Firstly, an arctic wind blasted his naked chest with a brutality that sucked the air from his lungs.

And secondly, he saw that his visitor was not a man.

He stared disbelievingly at the woman gazing back at him with eyes that were as wide and startled as his own. Her clothes were partially snow-encrusted, but in the light from the overhead lamp, even with the snowflakes whirling around her, he could see her coat was bright red; her boots were black; her rakishly tilted toque was red with white trim...

And the small sack slung over her shoulder was leather. Creamy white leather. Butter soft. Crammed full. And in it...dear God, over her shoulder, from the top of the sack, peered a...teddy bear?

The stranger said, in a husky voice, breathless and more than a bit shaky, ‘Oh, thank heavens!’ She swung die sack down and rested it on the stoop. ‘I was beginning to think there was no one home!’

Santa Claus...

Female version.

Ho, ho, ho!

But shouldn’t she have come down the chimney?

Damian shuddered. His legs wobbled and he grabbed the edge of the door to keep himself upright. He felt every inch of his bare flesh shrink from the icy air.

‘Go away,’ he croaked. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. I don’t do Christmas.’

The creature swayed toward him as he started to close the door. Her eyes were pleading. And as she cried ‘Wait!’ he noticed something else. Those eyes—as green as pine and exquisitely fringed with silky brown lashes—were dark with exhaustion...and redrimmed, as if she’d been crying.

He hesitated. A voice of caution whispered in some sane but distant part of his brain—

‘May I please come in and use your phone?’ she begged. ‘You see I’ve had an accident. My van’s stuck in a snowbank at the end of your drive—’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Bumped. Winded. Shocked. But thankfully not hurt. I just need to call for a tow truck for my van. Then I’ll be out of your way...honestly...as soon as I possibly can.’

Van? Shouldn’t it have been...reindeer? Damian tried to hold onto the voice of caution but in the face of the stranger’s desperate pleading, it faded away.

With a sigh of surrender, he swept a hand sideways.

She kicked the snow off her boots and walked past him, bringing in with her a flurry of snowflakes, and the faint scent of French perfume.

He slammed the door, and with a tilting gait, followed her into the living room.

‘Your phone?’ she asked.

‘Over there.’ He cleared his raspy throat, gestured vaguely toward the massive oak coffee table, shivered and wrapped his muscled arms around his chest. ‘Help yourself.’

She put the sack down; it hovered, and fell over. The bear looked up unblinkingly as the stranger whisked off her toque and shook out a tumbled mass of glorious curls that were the same rich silky brown as Belgian chocolates. Her brow was sweet, her nose pert, her chin dimpled. She unbuttoned the coat and glancing at him, she murmured, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take this off otherwise I’ll feel the cold terribly when I go out again.’ She crossed to the fireplace, shook the snow into the empty hearth and draped the garment over a wing chair adjacent to the fire. She was wearing a ribbed red sweater, he noted vaguely, and—tucked into her boots—a pair of neatly fitting cream slacks that revealed a very attractive—

‘Where am I?’ She looked around at him, and he saw that her lips were curved in a wry smile. ‘When I tell the tow truck people to come, I’ll have to tell them where.’

The fever was burning him up. The chills were making him shiver. Her words were echoing in his head in a diminishing spiral. Suddenly all he could think of was getting back to bed, burying himself under the covers.

‘Tell them it’s the McAllister place on the Tarlity side road,’ he growled. ‘Look, I’ve got this damned flu and I’m not in any state to entertain. Make yourself at home till the truck comes—phone book’s under the table. Call Grantham Towing—Bob’s the only game in town, but he’s reliable.’ Groggily he tipped two fingers to his brow in a salute, and wheeling around in a quick move that made his head swim, he made his way unsteadily to the stairs.

When he was halfway up, he heard the riffle of pages and guessed she was hunting the phone book for the number. By the time he reached the landing, she was talking to someone.

He swung the bedroom door shut behind him, and it closed with a loud click. Reeling across the room, he plunged into bed, fumbled for the duvet and pulled it up over his marble-cold shoulders.

But even as he told himself he’d never sleep nor ever in this life get warmed up again, he went out like a light.

‘I’m sorry, miss. We can’t possibly make it tonight.’

‘Are you absolutely sure? Thing is, Mr. Grantham, I’m stranded at the back of beyond with a complete stranger.’ Stephanie lowered her voice and went on, in little more than a whisper, as she glanced furtively at the stairs. ‘For all I know, the man might be a serial killer—’

A hearty laugh came across the line, making her jump. ‘You said you were calling from the McAllister place?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Hell, I’ve known McAllister for years. The man’s a loner but he’s no more a serial killer than I am—’

‘But—’

‘Take my word for it. Gotta go—the switchboard’s lit up like a Christmas tree! I’ll send somebody out tomorrow for sure...depending, of course, on the weather.’

And with that, the owner of Grantham Towing hung up.

At her end, Stephanie dropped the telephone onto the cradle. Well, she challenged herself, what am I to do now!

There was only one answer to that. She would have to ask the growly McAllister man if she could spend the night. No, not ask. She would have to tell him she was going to have to spend the night.

Tugging off her boots, she made for the stairs with reluctant steps, shivering though the house was quite warm.

Certainly Mr. Grantham of Grantham Towing had vouched for her host, but after all, she had no proof that the man upstairs was McAllister. The tall stranger wearing nothing but a scowl and a pair of tight blue jeans—her shiver intensified—could, of course, be McAllister. Or—and she felt her heartbeat take a flying leap into space—he could be an ax murderer who had already slain McAllister and was at this moment lying in wait upstairs for his next victim.

When she reached the upstairs landing, she saw four doors. Three were open. Feeling like Goldilocks, she tiptoed around the landing and peeked in the open doors. The rooms were unoccupied. She moved to the fourth door.

Turning the handle quietly, she pushed, inch by silent inch. In the dim light filtering in from the landing, she could make out a king-size bed, with a puffy plaid duvet. Under the duvet she saw the sprawled shape of a man, whose black hair formed a dark shadow against a white pillow.

‘Mr. McAllister—’ she addressed him in a hiss, from just inside the door ‘—are you awake?’

There was no answer.

Biting her lip, she took six tentative steps forward, and heard a rhythmic snoring, half-muffled by the pillow. She took another six steps, and was now close enough to touch him. Which she did. A light pressure, with the tips of her fingers, on what looked to be his rump. ‘Mr. McAll—’

The figure jerked spasmodically, erupted in a groan and croaked, ‘Go away!’ and burrowed deeper under the duvet.

‘I have to stay the night.’ Stephanie said the words clearly, but the hammering of her heart made them vibrate. ‘I just thought I ought to let you know. Is it all right?’

She thought he hadn’t heard her. She waited for a long moment. Then, as she was about to turn away uncertainly, his right arm came flailing out. The thumb, she saw in the glimpse she got before his arm dropped limply over the edge of the bed, was turned up.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and crept away, closing the door softly behind her.

Going into the nearest bedroom, she dragged the duvet off the bed, and along with a pillow, took it downstairs to the living area.

A quick reconnaissance of the main floor in search of a bathroom revealed a modern kitchen; a dining room adjacent to the living area; an invitingly cosy TV room; and—she was just about to give up hope when she found it—a powder room.

It took her only a few minutes to get washed and ready to turn in. Then, clad in her red T-shirt nightie, with her hair in a ponytail, she turned off all the lights save the one on the table by the sofa she’d chosen for her bed.

Before she cuddled down under the duvet, she reached out to switch off the lamp—and paused nervously as she noticed how the lone light cast eerie shadows around the room... over the Oriental rugs, over the tall bookcases, over the plump cushions on the low-slung seating...and over a massive oil painting whose spooky atmosphere gave her the creeps. Gothic, she thought with a shiver, very Gothic!

And as she fell into a fitful sleep, her last conscious thought...more of an apprehensive prayer, actually, than a thought...was that if the man upstairs was not McAllister but an ax murderer, his weapon would be sharp and her end mercifully quick.

What a helluva night it had been!

Damian McAllister rolled over onto his back, and stared bleary-eyed at the ceiling. Hallucinations were one thing—he’d had them a few times before when a bad flu had driven his temperature to abnormally high levels—but hallucinations like those he’d experienced over the past few hours were something else. They’d seemed as real to him as the mattress under his back.

Of course he was used to having nightmares around Christmas time—he’d been tormented by them since he was a kid...though they had, of course, become much worse during the past five years, since—

He swiped a shaky hand over his eyes.

Don’t think about that.

With an effort, he dragged his thoughts from the past.

Sweeping the duvet aside, he swung himself off the bed, and on legs that threatened with every step to give way under him, made his way across to the ensuite bathroom.

Once there, he planted his palms on the counter and stared starkly at his reflection in the mirror.

‘Ye gods!’ The man staring back at him looked like a criminal from an America’s Most Wanted poster. Black hair sticking up every which way, jaw scruffily bearded, eyes shot with blood—the red striations on the whites forming a lurid contrast to the steel blue irises.

He needed a shower and a shave...desperately needed a shower and a shave...but he was pretty sure he’d keel over if he tried to stand upright in the shower stall. First he had to get something in his stomach. And a cup of coffee would hit the spot.

He closed his eyes. Coffee. He wanted it so damned badly he could swear he smelled the fragrance in the air, aromatic and devilishly tantalizing...

‘...and the storm that hit northeastern Vermont late yesterday, shows no signs of letting up...’

Damn! Stephanie frowned as she snapped off the Sony ghetto blaster she’d clicked on when she’d come through to the kitchen ten minutes earlier. Pouring herself a mug of coffee from the six-cup pot, she crossed to the patio doors facing what was possibly the back of the house. She stared out, though she might as well have saved herself the bother, she thought bleakly. There was nothing to be seen but white. And Grantham Towing, she surmised as she took the first sip of her coffee, would be as likely to send someone down the treacherously steep Tarlity side road in this blizzard as they would send one of their trucks to the moon.

So here she was, stuck in a remote lodge with a—

‘Well, hello and good morning.’

Stephanie swiveled, convulsively swallowing the coffee she’d been swirling around her tongue, and stared wide-eyed at the man standing in the doorway.

McAllister.

If indeed he was McAllister...

He was tilted forward, and he had a hand pressed flat on either jamb, at shoulder level. He was wearing what seemed to be the same pair of jeans he’d had on the night before; certainly he was wearing the same scowl. And he looked for all the world like one of America’s Most Wanted...but at least he wasn’t carrying an ax. Not that he would have needed a weapon to overpower her, Stephanie reflected as her gaze skimmed over the sleek muscles cording his arms, his dark-haired chest, his powerful thighs—

She flicked her gaze up and noticed with dismay that his eyes—slightly bloodshot but keen—were fixed with interest on her own thighs, revealed beneath the hem of her short nightie. She’d awakened so early she’d decided she’d be safe enough to have a mug of coffee before showering and getting her clothes on. A mistake.

‘I hate to be a nuisance,’ she said, ‘but you did indicate last night that I could stay over.’

‘You’re real.’ His mouth quirked up at the edges.

‘Real?’

‘I thought you were Mrs. Claus.’

She raised an incredulous eyebrow.

He dropped his arms and slumped sideways against the doorjamb, the brown of his tanned skin accentuated by the crisp white of the door’s painted trim. ‘The red coat, the red-and-white hat...the sack of toys...’

‘Oh.’ Stephanie chuckled. ‘My duffel bag. No, it’s just got a few clothes and my toilet things... not toys. The teddy bear—well, I stuffed him on top at the last minute.’

Her host scratched a hand over his chest, and yawned, showing a glimpse of perfect white teeth. ‘I thought, this morning, that I’d been hallucinating last night, but I wasn’t. Your reindeer—’ he corrected himself ‘—your van...it’s in a snowbank?’

‘I lost control coming down the hill, ending up slewing off to one side and got stuck at the bottom of your driveway. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I saw this place—all the lights on, and every sign of being inhabited. But I admit I began to panic when—’

‘When I took so long to answer the bell.’ He pushed himself lazily from the doorjamb. ‘I seem to recall telling you to make yourself at home.’ His gaze drifted to the mug in her hand. ‘I see you took me at my word.’

Stephanie indicated a second mug on the table. ‘I was going to pour you some shortly and bring it to your room.’

‘Had I but known...’ Amusement lurked in his voice.

Was the man flirting with her? Good Lord, that was all she needed! In a prim tone, she said, ‘Cream and sugar?’

‘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.

He swallowed, released her hand and robbed the heel of his thumb over his stubbled jaw. Dangerous, he told himself, to let himself think that way.

‘I’m going up to have a shower,’ he said.

‘I’ll fix us something to eat.’

‘Cupboard’s pretty bare.’

She smiled faintly. ‘Not totally.’

His head was getting a bit dizzy again. ‘Good.’

As he ascended the stairs, he realized he was whistling contemplatively under his breath, and with a frown, put a stop to it Irritably he admitted he’d been wondering what it would feel like to untie the green velvet ribbon, spread out that glorious brown hair and let the lustrous strands spill through his fingers.

And even more irritably, he admitted he’d been wondering what it would feel like to sink down with this woman on a bed of green moss, with the scent of pink roses all around, and claim her pouting lips in a passionate kiss.

He glowered. His instincts warned him that Stephanie Redford was not the type to take such kisses lightly. She was beautiful and desirable—but she was also ‘nice’; his deepest instincts told him that, as they also told him that here was a woman who believed in love and marriage...and all the trimmings.

Christmas, for example. It was clear she believed in Christmas.

He did not.

He muttered an oath as he pushed open his bedroom door. He would have to make sure he never kissed her, because his deepest instincts told him something else. They told him that if he ever did kiss her, she’d be impossible to forget.