Читать книгу A Cinderella Story: Maid Under the Mistletoe / My Fair Billionaire / Second Chance with the CEO - Maureen Child - Страница 14
ОглавлениеSam used to hate the night.
The quiet. The feeling of being alone in the world. The seemingly endless hours of darkness. It had given him too much time to think. To remember. To torture himself with what-might-have-beens. He couldn’t sleep because memories became dreams that jolted him awake—or worse, lulled him into believing the last several years had never really happened. Then waking up became the misery, and so the cycle went.
Until nearly a week ago. Until Joy.
He had a fire blazing in the hearth as he waited for her. Night was now something he looked forward to. Being with her, hearing her voice, her laughter, had become the best part of his days. He enjoyed her quick mind, and her sense of humor—even when it was directed at him. He liked hearing her talk about what was happening in town, even though he didn’t know any of the people she told him about. He liked seeing her with her daughter, watching the love between them, even though it was like a knife to his heart.
Sam hadn’t expected this, hadn’t thought he wanted it. He rubbed his palms together, remembering the flash of heat that enveloped him when he’d taken her hand to seal their latest deal. He could see the flash in her eyes that told him she’d felt the same damn thing. And with the desire gripping him, guilt speared through Sam, as well. Everything he’d lost swam in his mind, reminding him that feeling, wanting, was a steep and slippery road to loss.
He stared into the fire, listened to the hiss and snap of flame on wood, and for the first time in years, he tried to bring those long-abandoned memories to the surface. Watching the play of light and shadow, the dance of flames, Sam fought to draw his dead wife’s face into his mind. But the memory was indistinct, as if a fog had settled between them, making it almost impossible for him to remember just the exact shade of her brown eyes. The way her mouth curved in a smile. The fall of her hair and the set of her jaw when she was angry.
It was all...hazy, and as he battled to remember Dani, it was Joy’s face that swam to the surface of his mind. The sound of her laughter. The scent of her. And he wanted to know the taste of her. What the hell was happening to him and why was he allowing it? Sam told himself to leave. To not be there when Joy came into the room. But as much as he knew he should, he also knew he wouldn’t.
“I brought more cookies.”
He turned in his chair to look at her, and even from across the room, he felt that now-familiar punch of awareness. Of heat. And he knew it was too late to leave.
At her smile, one eyebrow lifted and he asked, “More reindeer and Santas?”
That smile widened until it sparkled in her eyes. She walked toward him, carrying a tray that held the plate of cookies and two glasses of golden wine.
“This time we have snowmen and wreaths and—” she paused “—winter trees.”
He shook his head and sighed. It seemed she was determined to shove Christmas down his throat whether he liked it or not. “You’re relentless.”
Why did he like that about her?
“That’s been said before,” she told him and took her usual seat in the chair beside his. Setting the tray down on the table between them, she took a cookie then lifted her glass for a sip of wine.
“Really. Cookies and wine.”
“Separately, they’re both good,” she said, waving her cookie at the plate, challenging him to join her. “Together, they’re amazing.”
The cookies were good, Sam thought, reaching out to pick one up and bite in. All he’d had to do was close his eyes so he wasn’t faced with iced, sprinkled Santas and they were just cookies. “Good.”
“Thanks.” She sat back in the chair. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What?”
“Talking to me.” She folded her legs up beneath her, took another sip of her wine and continued. “We’ve been sitting in this room together for five nights now and usually, the only voice I hear is my own.”
He frowned, took the wine and drank. Gave him an excuse for not addressing that remark. Of course, it was true, but that wasn’t the point. He hadn’t asked her to join him every night, had he? When she only looked at him, waiting, he finally said, “Didn’t seem to bother you any.”
“Oh, I don’t mind talking to myself—”
“No kidding.”
She grinned. “But it’s more fun talking to other people.”
Sam told himself not to notice how her hair shined golden in the firelight. How her eyes gleamed and her mouth curved as if she were always caught on the verge of a smile. His gaze dropped to the plain blue shirt she wore and how the buttons pulled across her chest. Her jeans were faded and soft, clinging to her legs as she curled up and got comfortable. Red polish decorated her toes. Why that gave him a quick, hot jolt, he couldn’t have said.
Everything in him wanted to pull her out of that chair, wrap his arms around her and take her tantalizing mouth in a kiss that would sear both of them. And why, he asked himself, did he suddenly feel like a cheating husband? Because since Dani, no other woman had pulled at him like this. And even as he wanted Joy, he hated that he wanted her. The cookie turned to chalk in his mouth and he took a sip of wine to wash it down.
“Okay, someone just had a dark thought,” she mused.
“Stay out of my head,” Sam said, slanting her a look.
Feeling desire didn’t mean that he welcomed it. Life had been—not easier—but more clear before Joy walked into his house. He’d known who he was then. A widower. A father without a child. And he’d wrapped himself up in memories designed to keep him separate from a world he wasn’t interested in anyway.
Yet now, after less than a week, he could feel those layers of insulation peeling away and he wasn’t sure how to stop it or even if he wanted to. The shredding of his cloak of invisibility was painful and still he couldn’t stop it.
Dinner with Joy and Holly had tripped him up, too, and he had a feeling she’d known it would. If he’d been smart, he would have walked out of the room as soon as he’d seen them at the table. But one look into Joy’s and Holly’s eyes had ended that idea before it could begin. So instead of having his solitary meal, he’d been part of a unit—and for a few minutes, he’d enjoyed it. Listening to Holly’s excited chatter, sharing knowing looks with Joy. Then, of course, he remembered that Joy and Holly weren’t his. And that was what he had to keep in mind.
Taking another drink of the icy wine, he shifted his gaze to the fire. Safer to look into the flames than to stare at the deep blue of her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, finally responding to her last statement, “I don’t really talk to people anymore.”
“No kidding.” She threw his earlier words back at him, and Sam nodded at the jab.
“Kaye tends to steer clear of me most of the time.”
“Kaye doesn’t like talking to people, either,” Joy said, laughing. “You two are a match made in heaven.”
“There’s a thought,” he muttered.
She laughed again, and the sound of it filled every empty corner of the room. It was both balm and torture to hear it, to know he wanted to hear it. How was it possible that she’d made such an impact on him in such a short time? He hadn’t even noticed her worming her way past his defenses until it was impossible to block her.
“So,” she asked suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts, “any idea where I can find a puppy?”
“No,” he said shortly, then decided there was no reason to bark at her because he was having trouble dealing with her. He looked at her. “I don’t know people around here.”
“See, you should,” she said, tipping her head to one side to look at him. “You’ve lived here five years, Sam.”
“I didn’t move here for friends.” He came to the mountains to find the peace that still eluded him.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t make some.” Sighing, she turned her head to the flames. “If you did know people, you could help me on the puppy situation.” Shaking her head, she added, “I’ve got her princess dolls and a fairy princess dress and the other small things she asked for. The puppy worries me.”
He didn’t want to think about children’s Christmas dreams. Sam remembered another child dictating letters to Santa and waking to the splendor of Christmas morning. And through the pain he also recalled how he and his wife had worked to make those dreams come true for their little boy. So, though he hated it, he said, “You could get her a stuffed puppy with a note that Santa will bring her the real thing as soon as the puppy’s ready for a new home.”
She tipped her head to one side and studied him, a wide smile on her face. God, when she smiled, her eyes shone and something inside him fisted into knots.
“A note from Santa himself? That’s a good idea. I think Holly would love that he’s going to make a special trip just for her.” Clearly getting into it, she continued, “I could make up a certificate or something. You know—” she deepened her voice for dramatic effect “—this is to certify that Holly Curran will be receiving a puppy from Santa as soon as the puppy is ready for a home.” Wrinkling her brow, she added thoughtfully, “Maybe I could draw a Christmas border on the paper and we could frame it for her—you know, with Santa’s signature—and hang it in her bedroom. It could become an heirloom, something she passes down to her kids.”
He shrugged, as if it meant nothing, but in his head, he could see Holly’s excitement at a special visit from Santa after Christmas. But once December was done, he wouldn’t be seeing Joy or Holly again, so he wouldn’t know how the Santa promise went, would he? Frowning to himself, he tried to ignore the ripple of regret that swept through him.
“Okay, I am not responsible for your latest frown.”
“What?” He turned his head to look at her again.
She laughed shortly. “Nothing. So, what’d you work on today?”
“Seriously?” Usually she just launched into a monologue.
“Well, you’re actually speaking tonight,” she said with a shrug, “so I thought I’d ask a question that wasn’t rhetorical.”
“Right.” Shaking his head, he said, “I’m starting a new project.”
“Another table?”
“No.”
“Talking,” she acknowledged, “but still far from chatty.”
“Men are not chatty.”
“Some men you can’t shut up,” she argued. “If it’s not a table you’re working on, what is it?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“You know, in theory, a job like that sounds wonderful.” She took a sip of wine. “But I do better with a schedule all laid out in front of me. I like knowing that website updates are due on Monday and newsletters have to go out on Tuesday, like that.”
“I don’t like schedules.”
She watched him carefully, and his internal radar went on alert. When a woman got that particular look in her eye—curiosity—it never ended well for a man.
“Well,” she said softly, “if you haven’t decided on a project yet, you could give me some help with the Santa certificate.”
“What do you mean?” He heard the wariness in his own voice.
“I mean, you could draw Christmassy things around the borders, make it look beautiful.” She paused and when she spoke again, the words came so softly they were almost lost in the hiss and snap of the fire in front of them. “You used to paint.”
And in spite of those flames less than three feet from him, Sam went cold right down to the bone. “I used to.”
She nodded. “I saw some of your paintings online. They were beautiful.”
He took a long drink of wine, hoping to ease the hard knot lodged in his throat. It didn’t help. She’d looked him up online. Seen his paintings. Had she seen the rest, as well? Newspaper articles on the accident? Pictures of his dead wife and son? Pictures of him at their funeral, desperate, grieving, throwing a punch at a photographer? God he hated that private pain was treated as public entertainment.
“That was a long time ago,” he spoke and silently congratulated himself on squeezing the words from a dry, tight throat.
“Almost six years.”
He snapped a hard look at her. “Yeah. I know. What is it you’re looking for here? Digging for information? Pointless. The world already knows the whole story.”
“Talking,” she told him. “Not digging.”
“Well,” he said, pushing to his feet, “I’m done talking.”
“Big surprise,” Joy said, shaking her head slowly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Damn it, had he really just been thinking that spending time with her was a good thing? He looked down into those summer-blue eyes and saw irritation sparking there. Well, what the hell did she have to be mad about? It wasn’t her life being picked over.
“It means, I knew you wouldn’t want to talk about any of this.”
“Yet, you brought it up anyway.” Hell, Kaye knew the whole story about Sam’s life and the tragedy he’d survived, but at least she never threw it at him. “What the hell? Did some reporter call you asking for a behind-the-scenes exclusive? Haven’t they done enough articles on me yet? Or maybe you want to write a tell-all book, is that it?”
“Wow.” That irritation in her eyes sparked from mild to barely suppressed fury in an instant. “You really think I would do that? To you? I would never sell out a friend.”
“Oh,” he snapped, refusing to be moved by the statement, “we’re friends now?”
“We could be, if you would stop looking at everyone around you like a potential enemy.”
“I told you I didn’t come here for friends,” he reminded her. Damn it, the fire was heating the air. That had to be why breathing was so hard. Why his chest felt tight.
“You’ve made that clear.” Joy took a breath that he couldn’t seem to manage, and he watched as the fury in her eyes softened to a glimmer. “Look, I only said something because it seemed ridiculous to pretend I didn’t know who you were.”
He rubbed the heel of his hand at the center of his chest, trying to ease the ball of ice lodged there. “Fine. Don’t pretend. Just ignore it.”
“What good will that do?” She set her wine down on the table and stood up to face him. “I’m sorry but—”
“Don’t. God, don’t say you’re sorry. I’ve had more than enough of that, thanks. I don’t want your sympathy.” He pushed one hand through his hair and felt the heat of the fire on his back.
This place had been his refuge. He’d buried his past back east and come here to get away from not only the press, but also the constant barrage of memories assaulting him at every familiar scene. He’d left his family because their pity had been thick enough to choke him. He’d left himself behind when he came to the mountains. The man he’d once been. The man who’d been so wrapped up in creating beauty that he hadn’t noticed the beauty in his own life until it had been snatched away.
“Well, you’ve got it anyway,” Joy told him and reached out to lay one hand on his forearm.
Her touch fired everything in him, heat erupting with a rush that jolted his body to life in a way he hadn’t experienced in too many long, empty years. And he resented the hell out of it.
He pulled away from her, and his voice dripped ice as he said, “Whatever it is you’re after, you should know I don’t want another woman in my life. Another child. Another loss.”
Her gaze never left his, and those big blue pools of sympathy and irritation threatened to drown him.
“Everybody loses, Sam,” she said quietly. “Houses, jobs, people they love. You can’t insulate yourself from that. Protect yourself from pain. It’s how you respond to the losses you experience that defines who you are.”
He sneered at her. She had no idea. “And you don’t like how I responded? Is that it? Well, get in line.”
“Loss doesn’t go away just because you’re hiding from it.”
Darkness beyond the windows seemed to creep closer, as if it were finding a way to slip right inside him. This room with its bright wood and soft lights and fire-lit shadows felt as if it were the last stand against the dark, and the light was losing.
Sam took a deep breath, looked down at her and said tightly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her head tipped to one side and blond curls fell against her neck. “You think you’re the only one with pain?”
Of course not. But his own was too deep, too ingrained to allow him to give a flying damn what someone else might be suffering. “Just drop it. I’m done with this.”
“Oh no. This you don’t get to ignore. You think I don’t know loss?” She moved in closer, tipped her head back and sent a steely-blue stare into his eyes. “My parents died when I was eight. I grew up in foster homes because I wasn’t young enough or cute enough to be adopted.”
“Damn it, Joy—” He’d seen pain reflected in his own eyes often enough to recognize the ghosts of it in hers. And he felt like the bastard he was for practically insisting that she dredge up her own past to do battle with his.
“As a foster kid I was never ‘real’ in any of the families I lived with. Always the outsider. Never fitting in. I didn’t have friends, either, so I went out and made some.”
“Good for you.”
“Not finished. I had to build everything I have for myself by myself. I wanted to belong. I wanted family, you know?”
He started to speak, but she held up one hand for silence, and damned if it didn’t work on him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as he watched her dip into the past to defend her present.
“I met Holly’s father when I was designing his website. He was exciting and he loved me, and I thought it was forever—it lasted until I told him about Holly.”
And though Sam felt bad, hearing it, watching it, knowing she’d had a tough time of it, he couldn’t help but ask, “Yeah? Did he die? Did he take Holly away from you, so that you knew you’d never see her again?”
She huffed out a breath. “No, but—”
“Then you don’t know,” Sam interrupted, not caring now if he sounded like an unfeeling jerk. He wouldn’t feel bad for the child she’d once been. She was the one who had dragged the ugly past into the present. “You can’t possibly know, and I’m not going to stand here defending myself and my choices to you.”
“Great,” she said, nodding sharply as her temper once again rose to meet his. “So you’ll just keep hiding yourself away until the rest of your life slides past?”
Sam snapped, throwing both hands high. “Why the hell do you care if I do?”
“Because I saw you with Holly,” Joy said, moving in on him again, flavoring every breath he took with the scent of summer flowers that clung to her. “I saw your kindness. She needed that. Needs a male role model in her life and—”
“Oh, stop. Role models. For God’s sake, I’m no one’s father figure.”
“Really?” She jammed both hands on her hips. “Better to shut yourself down? Pretend you’re alone on a rock somewhere?”
“For me, yeah.”
“You’re lying.”
“You don’t know me.”
“You’d like to think so,” Joy said. “But you’re not that hard to read, Sam.”
Sam shook his head. “You’re here to run the house, not psychoanalyze me.”
“Multitasker, remember?” She smiled and he resented her for it. Resented knowing that he wanted her in spite of the tempers spiking between them. Hell, maybe because of it. He hated knowing that maybe she had a point. He really hated realizing that whatever secrets he thought he’d been keeping were no more private than the closest computer with an internet connection.
And man, it bugged him that she could go from anger to smiles in a blink.
“This isn’t analysis, Sam.” She met his gaze coolly, steadily, firelight dancing in her eyes. “It’s called conversation.”
“It’s called my family,” he said tightly, watching the reflection of flame and shadow in the blue of her eyes.
“I know. And—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.”
“I have to,” she said simply. “And I am.”
“Great. Thanks.” God he wanted to get out of there. She was too close to him. He could smell her shampoo and the scent of flowers—Jasmine? Lilies?—fired a bolt of desire through him.
“But that’s not all I am,” she continued. “I’m also a little furious at you.”
“Yeah? Right back at you.”
“Good,” she said, surprising him. “If you’re angry at least you’re feeling something.” She moved in closer, kept her gaze locked with his and said, “If you love making furniture and working with wood, great. You’re really good at it.”
He nodded, hardly listening, his gaze shifting to the open doorway across the room. It—and the chance of escape—seemed miles away.
“But you shouldn’t stop painting,” she added fiercely. “The worlds you created were beautiful. Magical.”
That magic was gone now, and it was better that way, he assured himself. But Sam couldn’t remember a time when anyone had talked to him like this. Forcing him to remember. To face the darkness. To face himself. One reason he’d moved so far from his parents, his sister, was that they had been so careful. So cautious in everything they’d said as if they were all walking a tightrope, afraid to make the wrong move, say the wrong thing.
Their...caution had been like knives, jabbing at him constantly. Creating tiny nicks that festered and ached with every passing minute. So he’d moved here, where no one knew him. Where no one would offer sympathy he didn’t want or advice he wouldn’t take. He’d never counted on Joy.
“Why?” she asked. “Why would you give that up?”
It had been personal. So deeply personal he’d never talked about it with anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now. Chest tight, mouth dry, he looked at her and said, “I’m not talking about this with you.”
With anyone.
He took a step or two away from her, then spun back and around to glare down at her. In spite of the quick burst of fury inside him, sizzling around and between them, she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Another thing to admire about her, damn it. She was sure of herself even when she was wrong.
“I already told you, Sam. You don’t scare me.”
“That’s a damn shame,” he muttered, trying not to remember that his mother had warned him about lonely old recluses muttering to themselves. He turned from her again, and this time she reached out and grabbed his arm as he moved away from her.
“Just stop,” she demanded. “Stop and talk to me.”
He glanced down at her hand on his arm and tried not to relish the heat sliding from her body into his. Tried not to notice that every cell inside him was waking up with a jolt. “Already told you I’m not talking about this.”
“Then don’t. Just stay. Talk to me.” She took a deep breath, gave his arm a squeeze, then let him go. “Look, I didn’t mean to bring any of this up tonight.”
“Then why the hell did you?” He felt the loss of her touch and wanted it back.
“I don’t like lying.”
Scowling now, he asked, “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Joy folded both arms in front of her and unconsciously lifted them until his gaze couldn’t keep from admiring the pull of her shirt and the curve of those breasts. He shook his head and attempted to focus when she started talking again.
“I found out today about your family and not saying something would have felt like I was lying to you.”
Convoluted, but in a weird way, she made sense. He wasn’t much for lies, either, except for the ones he told his mother every time he assured her that he was fine. And truth be told, he would have been fine with Joy pretending she knew nothing about his past. But it was too late now for pretense.
“Okay, great. Conscience clear. Now let’s move on.” He started walking again and this time, when Joy tugged on his arm to get him to stop, he whirled around to face her.
Her blue eyes went wide, her mouth opened and he pulled her into him. It was instinct, pure, raw instinct, that had him grabbing her close. He speared his fingers through those blond curls, pulled her head back and kissed her with all the pent-up frustration, desire and, yeah, even temper that was clawing at him.
Surprised, it took her only a second or two to react. Joy wrapped her arms around his waist and moved in even closer. Sam’s head exploded at the first, incredible taste of her. And then he wanted more. A groan slid from her throat, and that sound fed the flames enveloping him. God, he’d had no idea what kissing her would do to him. He’d been thinking about this for days, and having her in his arms made him want the feel of her skin beneath his hands. The heat of her body surrounding his.
All he could think was to get her clothes off her. To cup her breasts, to take each of her nipples into his mouth and listen to the whimpering sounds of pleasure she would make as he took her. He wanted to look down into blue eyes and watch them go blind with passion. He wanted to feel her hands sliding across his skin, holding him tightly to her.
His kiss deepened farther, his tongue tangling with hers in a frenzied dance of desire that pumped through him with the force and rush of a wildfire screaming across the hillsides.
Joy clung to him, letting him know in the most primal way that she felt the same. That her own needs and desires were pushing at her. He took her deeper, held her tighter and spun her around toward the closest couch. Heart pounding, breath slamming in and out of his lungs, he kept his mouth fused to hers as he laid her down on the wide, soft cushions and followed after, keeping her close to his side. She arched up, back bowing as he ran one hand up and down the length of her. All he could think about was touching her skin, feeling the heat of her. He flipped the button of her jeans open, pulled down the zipper, then slid his hand down, across her abdomen, feeling her shiver with every inch of flesh he claimed. His fingers slipped beneath the band of her panties and she lifted her hips as he moved to cup her heat.
She gasped, tore her mouth from his and clutched at his shoulders when he stroked her for the first time. He loved the feel of her—slick, wet, hot. His body tightened painfully as he stared into her eyes. His mind fuzzed out and his body ached. He touched her, again and again, stroking, pushing into her heat, caressing her inside and out, driving them both to the edge of insanity.
“Sam—” She breathed his name and that soft, whispered sound rattled him.
When had she become so important? When had touching her become imperative? He took her mouth, tangling his tongue with hers, taking the taste of her deep inside him as he felt her body coil tighter with the need swamping her. She rocked into his hand, her hips pumping as he pushed her higher, faster. He pulled his head back, wanting, needing to see her eyes glaze with passion when the orgasm hit her.
He wasn’t disappointed. She jolted in his arms when his thumb stroked across that one small nub of sensation at the heart of her. Everything she was feeling flashed through her eyes, across her features. He was caught up, unable to tear his gaze from hers. Joy Curran was a surprise to him on so many levels, he felt as though he’d never really learn them all. And at the moment, he didn’t have to. Right now, he wanted only to hold her as she shattered.
She called his name again and he clutched her to him as her body trembled and shivered in his grasp. Her climax rolled on and on, leaving her breathless and Sam more needy than ever.
His body ached to join hers. His heart pounded in a fast gallop that left him damn near shaking with the want clawing at him.
“Sam,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his face with her palms. “Sam, I need—”
He knew just what she needed because he needed it too. He shifted, pulled his hand free of her body and thought only about stripping them both out of their clothes.
In one small, rational corner of his mind, Sam admitted to himself that he’d never known anything like this before. This pulsing, blinding, overpowering sense of need and pleasure and craving to be part of a woman. To be locked inside her body and lose himself in her. Never.
Not even with Dani.
That thought broke him. He pulled back abruptly and stared down at Joy like a blind man seeing the light for the first time. Both exhilarated and terrified. A bucket full of ice water dumped on his head wouldn’t have shocked him more.
He fought for breath, for balance, but there wasn’t any to be had. His own mind was shouting at him, telling him he was a bastard for feeling more for Joy than he had for his wife. Telling him to deny it, even to himself. To bury these new emotions and go back to feeling nothing. It was safer.
“That’s it,” he said, shaking his head, rolling off the couch, then taking a step, then another, away from her. “I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can,” Joy assured him, a confused half smile on her face as her breath came in short, hard gasps. She pushed herself up to her elbows on the couch. Her hair was a wild tumble of curls and her jeans still lay open, invitingly. “You were doing great.”
“I won’t do this.” His eyes narrowed on her. “Not again.”
“Sam, we should talk—”
He actually laughed, though to him it sounded harsh, strained as it scraped against his throat. “Talking doesn’t solve everything and it won’t solve this. I’m going out to the workshop.”
Joy watched him go, her lips still buzzing from that kiss. Her heart still pounding like a bass drum. She might even have gone after him if her legs weren’t trembling so badly she was forced to drop into the closest chair.
What the hell had just happened?
And how could she make it happen again?
