Читать книгу His Christmas Fantasy - Jennifer Labrecque - Страница 7

“WHEN ARE Helene and Mr. Wonderful getting here?” a muffled feminine voice asked as the kitchen door clicked closed behind Sam McKendrick, enveloping him in holiday scents of roasting turkey, pumpkin pie and fresh evergreen.

His sweeping glance, the practiced eye of a professional photographer, took in a green bean casserole in a glass dish waiting its turn in the oven, a mixing bowl surrounded by an opened bag of flour, measuring spoons and other baking paraphernalia on the yellow Formica countertop.

The crash and clang of falling pots and pans immediately followed from the lower corner cabinet where a very rounded rear was poking in the air, the speaker’s top half swallowed by the cabinet. “Got it,” the voice declared.

His new sister-in-law wiggled backward, freeing herself from the cabinet, an oversized cookie sheet in tow.

She straightened, stood, saw him and promptly dropped the cookie sheet. “Oh, hell.” Within seconds, however, laughter offset the momentary consternation in her hazel eyes. “Mr. Wonderful, I presume.”

Sam grinned. “Actually, it’s McKendrick. Sam McKendrick. And you must be Giselle.”

“Right.” She glanced at the teakettle-shaped clock on the wall. “You’re early.”

Giselle Randolph was a hot mess.

Her long brown hair, caught up in a clip, stuck out at an odd angle on one side, and flour dusted the end of her freckled nose. She wore a white T-shirt with I Brake For Elves in green lettering across the front, a bright red, very sexy bra visible beneath the thin T-shirt and snug gray sweats. He noted her bare feet and red toenails, a green-and-white holly berry design detailed on each of her big toes.

Enchanting with an earthy sensuality, she was the sexiest woman he’d ever met, flour or no flour on her nose.

She quickly recovered her aplomb. She smiled, wiped her hand on her thigh and extended her hand in greeting. “Welcome to the family.”

“Thanks.” He shook her sticky hand and the oddest sensation zapped him, as if he’d just found something he hadn’t known he was missing. Feeling slightly stunned, he shook his head to clear it and realized he was still engulfing her hand in his. He released her.

She grimaced an apology and wiped her hand ineffectually along the bottom of her T-shirt, which only tugged it tighter and threw her red plunging bra into further relief. “Sorry, didn’t realize it was sticky.” She waved her right hand, “Anyway…so, I guess I should thank you for eloping with my sister and saving me from some god-awful pink taffeta bridesmaid dress…or worse.” She pretended to shudder.

“Glad I could help.” He’d met Helene, a tall, cool blonde who turned heads everywhere she went, when she was on vacation at a resort in the Caymans and he was there shooting a brochure ad—not his typical assignment but he’d done it as a favor for his friend, who managed the resort. What followed was atypical, as well. Six whirlwind weeks and one Vegas elopement and honeymoon later and here he was, meeting the parents…and sister…on Christmas Day in suburban Atlanta.

“And my blushing-bride sister is where?”

“Your parents were out front working on the light display—”

She interrupted him, laughing. “More like fighting over the light display. You might as well get used to it. It’s a ritual.”

He laughed along with her, “Got it.”

“Helene?” she prompted, as if she hadn’t interrupted and he was the one who’d veered off topic. She retrieved the cookie sheet from the kitchen floor and put it on the counter.

“Talking to the next-door neighbors at the fence,” he said before she cut him off again. “She sent me in with the luggage.”

“Oh, right,” she said, her expressive eyes widening as if she’d just noticed the rolling suitcase handle in his left hand and the travel bag slung over his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll show you to Helene’s old room.”

He followed her down the hall of the rambling Victorian, which held a charming mix of antiques, clutter and Christmas decorations. They passed the front room, where a heavily decorated tree filled one corner and a cheery fire crackled in the fireplace. The setting could’ve been lifted from a made-for-TV Christmas special, a far cry from the public housing he’d grown up in. Buying his mother her own small house, complete with the white picket fence she’d longed for, had been one of the most satisfying moments of his life.

He started up the staircase, following Giselle, the stairs creaking loudly. Four steps up, he realized he was the only one setting them off. Giselle knew precisely where to place her foot to avoid the loud creak that seemed to come with every riser. He followed her lead, and there was no more creaking. She stopped and turned. Given the difference in their heights, it put them eye to eye.

“I see you’ve got it.” She shook her head, smiling. “Once she started dating, Helene spent half her life grounded ‘cause she’d get caught sneaking in late.”

It was an amusing tidbit about his wife, but he found himself wondering about Giselle. “What about you?”

“I never snuck out.” She was so close he didn’t miss the flicker of wistfulness in her eyes. Her smile lit up her face, and he caught himself just in time from reaching out to wipe away the dusting of flour on her nose. “No one wanted to keep me out late the way they did Helene. You won’t be surprised to know your wife always had the boys lined up.”

“Not surprised at all. She’s beautiful.” Helene was beautiful. Sam realized he had a need, as a bastard kid who’d grown up in public housing, to prove himself by having the best. He might wear jeans, but his shirt was always pressed and his jacket was Armani. His condo downtown offered a great view of Atlanta’s skyline. At thirty, he was ready to settle down. Beautiful Helene was a head-turner. He’d married her and committed to a lifetime together, and Sam neither made nor took the commitment lightly. Which was why he found it so confounding to be standing on the stairs with his heart slamming against his ribs and lost in the depths of Giselle Randolph’s hazel eyes.

“She is,” Giselle said on a breathless note. Something real and hot and dangerous pulsed between them. Something organic neither one had manufactured but which they were both caught up in. She inhaled sharply, and for one brief moment, like the slow descent of a single drop of water captured on time-lapse film, she leaned toward him. Her breath tumbled out in a sigh, gusting warm and fragrant against his mouth.

Instinctively, he shifted toward her. The stair creaked like a rifle shot, blasting away the intimacy and bringing them both back to their senses.

She turned abruptly and led him up the stairs, chatting as if that would erase whatever the hell had just passed between them. “That’s Mom and Dad’s room at the top of the stairs, so you can see how they were right there to bust her. And then Daddy’s study is off to the right on the other side of their bedroom. My room is in the attic. I talked the parental unit into letting me move up there when I was twelve. It let my imagination run free.” That made sense. Helene had told him her sister was a writer. “And here’s Helene’s room…well, your room, too, now. Since you’re married and all.”

He deposited the suitcases at the foot of the bed as Giselle determinedly continued her tour guide monologue. “That’s a picture of Helene when she won homecoming queen her junior year,” she said, pointing to a particular picture in a wall full of framed glossies of his wife. “And that’s when she was senior homecoming queen.”

God, he wanted to kiss her to shut her up and, well, he just wanted to kiss her.

A sick feeling blossomed in his gut. Even further out of left field than the urge to kiss her came the traitorous thought that he’d up and married the wrong sister. And that was a helluva fix two days past his honeymoon.

The week before Christmas, two years later…

“HEY, GISELLE, got a minute?” Monica, Life Trendz magazine’s editorial department secretary, stepped into Giselle’s cubicle. “Change of plans on the Sedona trip.”

Often the harbinger of less-than-stellar news, Monica had a the-shit’s-about-to-hit-the-fan-but-don’t-shoot-the-messenger smile she put on for such occasions. She wore that smile now.

“Sure.” Trepidation crawled along Giselle’s spine as she closed the file folder with her Sedona notes. She was flexible. Writing for a monthly magazine that covered recent innovations, new ideas, and current…well, trends demanded flexibility, but a change of plans on Friday when she was flying to Arizona on Sunday to start this project didn’t sound promising. “What’s up?”

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Monica stepped into her cubicle but remained standing instead of making herself at home, the way she usually did in the folding chair shoved in one corner.

“Start with the bad so we can end on a positive note with the good.”

“Darren’s bagging the Sedona assignment.”

“What? He can’t do that.” More than just the photographer she’d teamed up with for three years now, Giselle considered Darren a good friend. “Unless he has a really good reason, he’s about to be a dead friend.” She was only partially joking.

She stared at Monica and drummed her fingers on her desk, awaiting an explanation. “And by the way, he’s a chicken to leave it up to you to tell me.”

Monica offered a weak smile. “Something about him and Gerald and a progressive dinner and not having enough prep time if he goes.”

“A progressive dinner?” Giselle shot to her feet. “That’s it. He’s dead. I’m going to kill him. I’ll wait until after Christmas, but before the new year…”

“I know you’ve got a personal stake in this trip and you could’ve used Darren’s moral support.”

True enough, she had a personal stake in the Sedona assignment, but Monica was blissfully ignorant, as was everyone else other than Darren, as to the real reason behind her eagerness to cover the story. Writing for Life Trendz meant sifting through scads of material for story ideas. She’d run across an online thread and knew, knew the moment she saw it, it was meant for her.

A New Age guru in Sedona claimed on the third day after the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year when the Earth rotated at its furthermost point from the sun in the northern hemisphere, there was an incredible spike at the energy vortexes in Sedona. Supposedly this surge at one particular vortex, which impacted both the male and female balance energies, had a profound effect on attractions and relationships. The guru claimed that couples who showed up there together tended to fall in love. There were even couples coming out for recommitment ceremonies, they were so convinced. Kind of a right-place-at-the-right-time love potion.

So, maybe it was a little out there, but that was the nature of most trends and the kind of stuff their readers loved. Giselle was willing to show up to see who else might be there, because anything was better than pining after a man you couldn’t have and shouldn’t want in the first place.

Monica, along with everyone else, thought her Sedona pilgrimage was to get over her ex-husband. They were wrong. Sam McKendrick was at the heart of her problem.

She’d never told anyone that running from her attraction to Sam was the real reason she’d married Barry Treadway. Except for her pathetic confession to Darren, over a shared pitcher of margaritas and chips and salsa in celebration of her divorce a couple of months ago. Darren, happy in his ten-year relationship with his partner Gerald and a romantic at heart, had proved an avid listener and sympathizer.

Once her Jose Cuervo buzz was gone, Giselle had sworn him to secrecy and forbidden him to bring it up again. She’d blabbed in a moment of weakness, but it wasn’t something she wanted to run around discussing. It was bad enough suffering from infatuation-induced insanity without talking about it. She’d coined that catchy phrase herself by way of explaining why she, the responsible big sister who, despite the sibling rivalry that marked their relationship, generally adored her baby sister and always had her back, could fall into lust with Helene’s husband.

From the moment she’d looked up in her mother’s kitchen and seen Sam standing there…something had happened inside her. She’d fought it, run from it, tried to ignore it, but from the moment she’d laid eyes on Sam McKendrick, she’d wanted him. It wasn’t as if she’d made the decision to want him. It was far worse. Something in her had responded to him, connected, and she’d been in a constant state of flux ever since.

Sam and Helene’s whirlwind marriage had lasted a whopping eight months. Eight months before Sam had cheated on Helene. How could Giselle possibly still find herself hung up on a man who’d betrayed her sister? And the really pathetic part of her, the part she despised for even thinking such a thing, was furious that if he was going to cheat, she, Giselle, hadn’t been an option. Not that she would have slept with her sister’s husband, but…And despite the knowing, despite the guilty sense of betrayal every time she thought of him, Sam McKendrick remained her forbidden fantasy.

She was resolute that this trip to Sedona would get her over Sam. It was meant to be, as if her stars were aligned just so. Darren bailing like this was merely a glitch, a minor hiccup.

Giselle started mentally running through the freelancers they’d used in the past. She’d be okay sharing a cottage with any of them. Apparently Sedona was the happening place at Christmas because Monica had had a heck of a time finding accommodations. She’d lucked out on a cancellation and managed to snag a two-bedroom cottage at a resort in the middle of Sedona. Serendipitous. Finding a sub willing to travel this close to Christmas would require one more dose of serendipity. She reached for her day planner.

“We’ll just have to find a replacement,” she said.

Monica stopped her. “That’s the good news. Darren’s already lined up his replacement.”

“Good, maybe I won’t kill him before New Year’s Eve,” Giselle said with a laugh. What was her problem? She should’ve known Darren wouldn’t leave her hanging. Her problem was she was making herself crazy about this trip because she was so ready, okay, desperate, to get over Sam McKendrick. “It won’t be the same as working with Darren because we’re used to one another, but he wouldn’t stick me with someone he didn’t trust, especially on this assignment.”

Monica stepped closer and cast a furtive glance about, as if Darren might be lurking in the potted plant down the hall. “Okay, he told me not to say anything,” Monica said, lowering her voice, and Giselle bit back a smile. Darren knew that was a surefire way to get Monica to pass along the info. Monica liked being the one in the know. “But he says this guy is hot. And single. Oh, yeah, and straight,” definitely a salient point “…you know, available. He said it was a shame to waste all that vortex voodoo.”

Giselle perked up. Hope sprang eternal. Normally, she was the last person looking to be set up with someone, but if the guy was even halfway decent, and Darren tended to have excellent taste in men, she was more than happy to drag him along to the magic vortex with her. If she showed up with her own potential love match, then all the better to rid herself of her Sam McKendrick fixation.

It couldn’t happen soon enough. Out of the blue, Sam had called. Two weeks ago she’d gotten home from work, and without any forewarning, she’d unsuspectingly punched the blinking button on her answering machine. She’d dropped her grocery bag and totally ruined a dozen eggs when she’d heard, “Giselle, this is Sam. I…uh…just wanted to touch base…maybe catch up. Call me.”

Right. Maybe when hell froze over. She’d sunk to the sofa and hit the Repeat button and listened again, despising herself for her weakness, for the instant heat that rampaged through her at the mere sound of him, the way every cell in her body seemed to soak up the richness of his voice like a dry sponge in a spring rain. And then she’d leaned forward, her finger poised over the Delete button, and…she couldn’t.

She still hadn’t. But she would when she got home today. This time she really would. And she wouldn’t hit Play and listen again before she deleted it. Yep, Sedona was all about healing and starting over—that had to be why she’d found the online thread two days after Sam’s phone call—and if she happened to haul along her own potential candidate, where was the harm?

Hope and enthusiasm buoyed Giselle’s mood. “Hot, single, and available—what’s not to love?”

Monica beamed in relief and waved her hand. “And Darren was all worried you’d be pissed.”

“I prefer him because I’m used to him, but if he’s lined up a decent photographer who’s all of the above, I’m good with that.”

As a general rule, men didn’t fall all over themselves around Giselle. She’d grown up the brains, her sister the beauty. Giselle took too much after her father’s side of the family to be a man-magnet, but hey, with all the energy and stuff floating around Sedona, who knew? Anything was possible, wasn’t it?

“Darren says this guy’s dropping by around,” Monica checked her watch, “well, now, to go over the assignment particulars with you.” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “I can’t wait to get a look at him. In fact, I think I’ll have lunch at my desk so I can check out your new love slave.” She did a Groucho Marx waggle of her eyebrows. “That is what this vortex thing is going to do, right? Turn him into your personal love slave?”

Giselle laughed, more excited than ever. She had a funny feeling in her tummy, a knowing, all doubts gone. This trip was about to change her life.

“I’ll let you know when I get back.” She picked up her note file from her desk.

Monica turned to leave. Giselle stopped her, grabbing a pen. “Wait a sec. I can probably figure it out on m yown since good-looking strangers don’t drop by my home-away-from-home cube every day, but does this camera-carrying paragon of manliness have a name? He probably won’t answer to love slave until after we get to Sedona.” She was terrible with names. This way she wouldn’t have to stress about remembering his when they met if she already had it written down. She flipped open the file folder, ready to jot his name on the inside flap.

Monica wrinkled her nose and Giselle laughed.

“You’re just creating a cheat sheet,” Monica accused. Okay, everyone in the department knew Giselle was bad with names. “Sam McKendrick. But he might like it if you call him Love Slave.”

Giselle swayed on her feet and for a second thought she might pass out. No, no, no! Anyone. Anybody. Just not him. “Son of a bitch,” she wailed. “No!”

Darren was deader than dead.

As if conjured from the depths of hell or every fantasy she’d had for the last two years, the devil himself sauntered into her cubicle. A laconic smile crinkled the corners of his hooded blue eyes. Stubble shadowed his rugged jaw and his dark brown hair looked as if he’d run his fingers, rather than a comb, through it. He’d paired a crisp white collared shirt with a well-cut jacket and jeans. Just as she remembered him. Equally familiar, her pulse raced and an illicit tingling raced through her body, leaving frantic heat in its wake.

Sam.

Her folder and pen slipped through her hands; papers scattered across the floor.

“I thought I heard my name, but just for the record, Love Slave works for me.”