Читать книгу A Miracle For Christmas - Grace Green, Grace Green - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

TEARS rolled down Stephanie’s cheeks, and with a choking sob, she clumsily wiped them away with her sweater sleeve as she hurried across the kitchen to click off the radio.

She should have known better than to switch it on; should have known that the airwaves would be joyous with the music of Christmas.

‘Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!

Alles schläft; einsam wacht...’

Even though the choir had been a German one, and the language unfamiliar, the sweet purity of the children’s voices as they sang ‘Silent Night’ had moved her unbearably.

She loved Christmas and had always been emotional at this time, but her feelings were especially near the surface this year because of her broken engagement—

‘Smells good.’

Stephanie froze. McAllister. Hoping she had dashed away all signs of her tears, she forced a bright smile and turned around...to find not the man she expected, but a complete stranger standing in the doorway. No—she blinked incredulously—not a stranger. It was McAllister...

And this was the man she’d classed as a caveman? She put a hand on the countertop to steady herself. Now that his beard was gone, his face was revealed in all its angular male perfection—she could see the hard slash of strong cheekbones, the firm set of a determined jaw, the deep lines etched either side of his mouth. His hair was as shiny as tar, his eyes clear and the same steel blue as the exquisite alpaca sweater he wore so casually over a pair of old jeans.

In his previous scruffy state she’d labeled him one of America’s Most Wanted. And now? Oh, certainly he would be one of America’s Most Wanted...wanted by every woman in the country who had a drop of red blood in her veins!

Breathlessly, as if her heart had tilted against her lungs for support and was squeezing out all the oxygen, she said, ‘Oh, there you are. I found some sausages in the freezer section, and eggs and milk in the fridge. The Best Before date on the bread was yesterday, but it seemed okay.’ The toast popped up. She turned away and busied herself buttering it. ‘How do you like your eggs?’

‘Sunny-side up, please. Here, I’ll pour the coffee.’

He had to pass her to get to the coffeepot, and as he brushed by, she caught the spicy scent of his shaving cream. Tantalizingly male. And disturbingly intimate...

She took a deep breath, and scooped up a spatula.

By the time he had filled two mugs with the steaming coffee, the toast was on the table, and she’d flipped a couple of fried eggs and several nicely browned sausages onto a warmed plate for him, and one egg and a couple of sausages onto another for herself. She set the plates on the place mats, and he pulled out a chair for her.

‘Thanks,’ she murmured, and as he took his seat she passed him the cream jug. ‘You take cream, don’t you, and no sugar?’

He did a double-take. ‘Are you psychic?’

He was sitting directly across from the window and the light from the snow outside seemed reflected in his eyes, making the blue so electrically dazzling she almost blinked. ‘No,’ she laughed lightly. ‘I offered you coffee when you came downstairs this morning. You don’t remember?’

‘Oh...now...vaguely.’ He stirred cream into his coffee and took a thirsty gulp. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Good and strong.’

For the next few minutes, they ate without talking. And as Stephanie occasionally peeked at him from under her lashes, it occurred to her that an outsider looking in might think them comfortably married. But they weren’t married; and she at least didn’t feel at all comfortable. Not since the rather frightening caveman had turned into the most elegantly attractive man she’d ever—

‘So—’ stretching back in his chair, he looked at her over the rim of his coffee mug ‘—tell me something about yourself. What do you do for a living?’

She saw that he had finished his meal, as she had, except for one small triangle of toast. She nibbled it, and looked at him teasingly. ‘Guess.’

‘Give me a clue.’ He put down his mug.

‘You’ve already had one.’

‘I have?’ He scratched his head. ‘Let me see. Ah, you’re a short-order cook.’

‘Try again.’

He stared at her as if trying to read the answer in her face. ‘You smash vans for the Rent-a-Wreck company?’

She gave a gurgling laugh and tilting her chair, reached across to the countertop for the nutmeg teddy bear, which she’d set there earlier. ‘This is what I do.’ She tossed it to him. ‘I design stuffed animals—I have them manufactured to my specifications by a Montpelier firm.’

He caught the bear, and held it. Held it gingerly, she thought with some amusement, the way a man—unused to children—might hold a baby for the first time. He looked down at it and, oddly, his features seemed to tighten. Then abruptly he flipped the bear back onto the counter.

“Then what?’ His tone was neutral. ‘You sell them?’

‘I have my own store. My own business.’ She corrected herself. ‘The premises are rented.’

‘Where? Montpelier?’

‘Boston.’ She saw his eyes widen, as if she’d caught him by surprise. ‘I’ve been there three years. The first couple were tough, but business is quite brisk now.’ She smiled. ‘If you’re ever in Boston, you must pop by. My place is called the Warmest Fuzzies Toy Store.’

Stephanie knew it was a whimsical name—which was why she had chosen it—and usually, when people heard it for the first time, they smiled. McAllister didn’t smile. For a long moment, he stared at her, his eyes suddenly as glassy as the bear’s, and then his black brows lowered in a scowl, a dark scowl, as if she’d said a four-letter word.

She put down her mug. ‘What’s the matter?’

He shoved back his chair and got up. ‘Nothing.’ His voice had become as churlish as his scowl. ‘If you’re finished eating,’ he added tersely, ‘refill your mug and take it through to the other room—I’ll tidy up here.’

What on earth had she said or done to change his mood? Had he thought—heaven forbid—that her invitation to pop by her store had been...a come-on?

Oh, Lord...

Cheeks pink, she got to her feet. She shifted her plate to the sink, refilled her mug and made for the door. McAllister leaned against the counter, arms folded impassively over his chest, waiting for her to leave.

She carried on by him into the living area, walking so quickly her coffee almost lipped over the edge of her mug.

As she crossed to the picture window, she heard a great clattering from the kitchen...an angry clattering... as if he was giving vent to whatever frustration he was feeling, by directing it toward the dirty plates and the frying pan.

But if he was annoyed with her because he thought she’d been making a move on him, perhaps, she reflected defiantly, she should have reminded him of the moves he had made on her. When she’d told him in all innocence that she’d been planning to bring his coffee up to his bedroom, hadn’t he said, in a suggestively inviting tone, ‘Had I but known...’? And then, when they’d bumped together against the wall, hadn’t he looked down at her from under his long sooty lashes and said, in a smoldering voice, ‘My, you are a pretty one!’

Huffily Stephanie turned from the window and crossed to the nearest bookcase. After a few moments’ deliberation, she chose the hardback copy of Untimely Graves, a thriller she’d been meaning to read for the past several years. She carried it with her to a nearby sofa. Curling up in a corner, she tucked her feet under, and then paused, staring into space, with her fingers curved around the closed book.

Damian McAllister obviously didn’t want her company.

So...from now on, she would make it just as obvious she didn’t want his!

With that thought firmly in mind, she opened the book.

And saw, inscribed on the inside front page in graceful copperplate, written with a fine-nibbed black pen:

To darling Damian, with all my love, Ashley.

‘Miss Redford—’

Stephanie almost jumped out of her skin. She was well into the fourth chapter of Untimely Graves, and McAllister’s voice had slashed into her sharply just as the murderer was creeping up on his second unsuspecting victim. She wrenched her head around, her pulse racing, and saw her host standing behind her, just a few feet away.

He was swinging an ax in his hand.

Her stomach turned over.

She held the book pressed to her chest for protection and felt her heart thud violently against it. ‘What...?’

‘I’m going out back to chop some wood for the fire.’

Her grip on the book slackened. Slightly. ‘Shouldn’t you...be...taking it easy today?’

‘I need to get some air.’

The blade of the ax glinted in the light from the overhead lamp. Stephanie swallowed.

‘Off you go then,’ she said, and if he wondered why her reply came out threadily, she didn’t care. She was cursed with an overactive imagination, that was all.

With a brusque nod, he turned and departed along the narrow lobby leading to the back of the house. A few seconds later, she heard a door slam shut.

Her breath hissed out with the sound of a deflating balloon, and she gave a shaky giggle. What an idiot she was! She was quite safe here with McAllister. It was only that the creepiness of the novel had put her in a nervous mood, and his coming up behind her had caught her off guard.

Putting down the book, she got up and stretched. She, too, felt like getting a breath of fresh air... and had he invited her to go out with him, she would probably have gone. But he hadn’t. He’d wanted to be alone.

She walked absently to the window...looked out on a land blanketed in white...and gasped. Good Lord, the snow had stopped! The sun was shining from a cloudless sky and streaming through the icicles that daggered down from the eaves above, transforming them into brilliantly colored prisms. Dazzled, she gazed beyond, and saw a wide sweep of valley adorned by frozen forest, river and lake. A winter wonderland, she thought with awe; Vermont at its very best.

Smiling, she whirled around and made for the phone.

She dialed the Grantham Towing number, and when Bob Grantham came on the line, she said quickly, ‘Mr. Grantham, this is Stephanie Redford again, calling from the McAllister place. I see the snow has let up and I was wondering—’

‘They’re ploughing the Tarlity roads this afternoon, miss. I’ll have somebody out your way by early evening.’

Thank heaven, Stephanie thought, as she hung up the phone after asking a couple more questions. She couldn’t wait to get home...

Yet...despite McAllister’s gruff demeanor, she couldn’t help worrying about him. Certainly he wouldn’t welcome her interest, or her concern...but she knew she’d be thinking about him over Christmas. Wondering how he was faring. Wondering what he’d be doing, here on his own.

Who was Ashley—the woman whose name he had murmured in his fever, the woman who had given him the thriller... along with all her love?

Was she still in his life? If so, why wasn’t she here with him? And if she wasn’t still in his life, why did he dream about her, and whisper her name in his sleep?

It was a mystery, Stephanie thought regret-fully... and would probably remain a mystery.

But it piqued her curiosity mightily.

McAllister didn’t come in again till the sun had gone down and darkness was falling.

She heard the back door slam, heard the purposeful tread of his booted feet in the lobby as he approached.

Face ruddy, and bringing a blast of cold air with him, along with a pile of chopped wood, he gave her only a glance as he made for the hearth. Bending over, he rolled up some newspaper, set kindlers on it and put a match to the paper. Once it had flared up, he added several logs. Within minutes, flames were leaping up the chimney’s wide throat.

Only then did he take off his parka, fling it down on a chair and swipe his palms down the side of his jeans.

‘So,’ he said in a cool tone, sniffing the aroma coming from the kitchen, ‘you’ve been busy? What’s cooking?’

She shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s only a macaroni and ham casserole. It’s time you went grocery shopping, Mr. McAllister. If you don’t die of pneumonia, you may well die of starvation.’

He grunted. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘A drink?’ She quirked an eyebrow. ‘As in...?’

‘As in Scotch, wine, you name it?’

She wanted to snub him, but the prospect of a glass of wine was just too tempting. After all, it was Christmas Eve, and so far there had been little cheer for her in this festive season. Especially not in this house; there wasn’t even a sprig of holly indoors, to celebrate the holidays.

‘White wine,’ she said, ‘would be nice.’

‘Coming up.’

He went into the kitchen and came back a couple of minutes later. After handing her a glass three-quarter filled with wine, he held up his glass of Scotch, the ice cube tinkling musically against the fine-cut crystal.

‘Good health.’

‘Good health,’ she murmured. And without thinking, added, ‘Merry Christmas.’

He didn’t respond to that, other than with what sounded like an unpleasant ‘Hrmmph!’ as he turned his back and crossed to the window. From where Stephanie was sitting, she could see his reflection in the darkened glass. What a grump he was, she thought, as she made out his now-familiar scowl. What an absolute grump.

‘You’ll be pleased to know,’ she said sweetly, ‘that I’ll be out of your way soon. I phoned Grantham Towing when I saw the snow had stopped, and they’re going to be sending out a truck early this evening.’

He wheeled round. ‘And what do you intend to do if your van is out of commission? It’s possible you may have damaged the transmission, or—’

‘Mr. Grantham said if there’s any problem, I’ll get a drive back to Tarlity with the driver of the tow truck, and I can go on from there by taxi or bus or whatever.’

He frowned. ‘Did you make any other calls?’ ‘No,’ Stephanie snapped, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll pay you for the three I made to Grantham Towing. Really, I—’

‘Miss Redford,’ his voice had a weary edge, ‘I don’t give a damn about the money. I was just concerned that since you’ve been stranded here, there might be someone—other than family—who might be concerned about you if they knew you hadn’t reached your destination.’

‘Oh.’ Suddenly she felt very small. ‘Sorry.’

‘Well?’ he barked. ‘Is there?’

‘Is there...what?’

‘Anyone else in your life!’

He meant a man, of course. Though why that should have made him sound so mad was beyond her. At any rate, she wasn’t about to tell him about Tony—Tony, who’d be in Aspen now, partying with the Whitneys...and with their beautiful daughter Tiffany, who’d been crazy about him for years.

‘No.’ Stephanie kept her voice light. ‘There’s nobody in my life. At this moment.’ And she certainly didn’t want to discuss the matter further. ‘So,’ she went on, running a fingertip around the rim of her glass as she looked up at him, ‘tell me, Mr. McAllister, what do you do for a living?’

He had taken up a stance at one side of the fire, and was leaning now against the mantelpiece. At her question, his eyes became shuttered.

‘I draw.’ She thought he sounded oddly evasive. Then his gaze flicked to the large oil painting that had given her the creeps the night before. ‘And paint. Which is why I built this place. The scenery here is—well, you don’t need me to tell you about the beauty of Vermont.’

Putting her glass down on the coffee table, Stephanie got to her feet, and rounding the sofa, walked over to look at the painting from several feet away. ‘You did this?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re exceptionally talented,’ she said quietly after a long moment. She turned, to find he was still over by the hearth, but he was watching her. Waiting.

‘That’s not much of a critique,’ he said in an offhanded manner that didn’t fool her.

She hesitated, before turning to look at the oil again. ‘The effect is stunning, compellingly vivid and dramatic, and the reflections in the lake so cleverly done...’

‘But...?’

He had heard the doubt in her voice. Damn! She squared her shoulders. ‘I’m afraid, though, that I shouldn’t like to have this particular work in my home. I should find it too... unsettling.’

‘Unsettling?’ His cool voice prodded her.

‘Mmm. And disturbing. The darkness of the valleys, the blackness of the clouds, the vague sense of threat from the vulture hovering over the wounded deer—’

‘It’s not a vulture, Miss Redford—it’s an eagle.’

‘Oh, I know it’s an eagle,’ she said impatiently. ‘But I like eagles and the effect here is more... sinister.’ She grimaced and made a small sound of distress. ‘I’m sorry.’ She walked back across the room and dropped into the sofa again. ‘That’s obviously not what you wanted to hear, but I have to be honest. You see, I like to surround myself with pictures that give me pleasure. There’s enough ugliness in the world without choosing to bring it into one’s home.’ She went on hesitantly, ‘Had I seen this in a gallery, I’d have thought the artist must have been very unhappy at the time he—’

‘My God, can’t you just look at the picture and see what’s there, without delving for something underneath?’ He sounded furious; he crashed his glass down on the mantelpiece so abruptly it was a wonder the crystal didn’t shatter. ‘Everyone’s a psychologist! Did I look at your damned teddy bear and say, “You’re exceptionally talented, and this little bear is a beautiful shade of brown...but I wouldn’t want him in my house because it would be a reminder that every home is not a happy home and every child does not get a teddy bear for Christmas?’”