Книга - A Miracle For Christmas

A Miracle For Christmas
Grace Green


A Christmas courtshipDamian McAllister didn't do Christmas. No presents, no carols, no mistletoe kisses. Christmas was just another day. Without the family he'd lost, what else could it be? It would take a miracle for him to fall in love again.Stephanie Redmond believed in happy-ever-afters–and miracles. It must have been fate that stranded her on Damian's doorstep one snowy Christmas Eve–with a sack of presents in her arms! Soft toys, cute fluffy animals…but no gift-wrapped miracles for Damian. One look into Damian's beautiful, sad eyes, however, and Stephanie was determined to work her own miracle with him!"Ms. Green spins an enchanting tale with marvelous characterization."–Romantic Times







Why, she wondered, was he here alone? (#ud8a01e00-e581-5226-8c05-3c4b7065a4af)About the Author (#ubd7e9e16-c471-5515-a7f3-70289a06e8e0)Title Page (#u5c15b704-90be-50bf-bfe7-598ccd23a1de)Dedication (#ufc7df9ea-8477-511a-a4dd-80d919196a28)CHAPTER ONE (#uceaa3ea3-bc67-5229-b5d3-21c6842fd3f9)CHAPTER TWO (#u5bb78a18-d63c-5d8e-b1fe-9308e7482301)CHAPTER THREE (#ucc617a1f-0258-5918-be64-365686e76257)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


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.

Stephanie herself couldn’t wait to get home.

But this man didn’t believe in Christmas. She frowned as she remembered Damian’s words. “Go away,” he’d growled. “I don’t do Christmas.”

She hugged her arms around herself and leaned toward the sofa. Why? she wanted to ask the sleeping man lying there.

Why don’t you do Christmas?


Grace Green was born in Scotland and is a former teacher. In 1967 she and her marine engineer husband John emigrated to Canada, where they raised their four children. Empty-nesters now, they are happily settled in west Vancouver in a house overlooking the ocean. Grace enjoys walking the sea wall, gardening, getting together with other writers...and watching her characters come to life, because she knows that, once they do, they will take over and write her stories for her.

Grace has written for the Harlequin Presents


series, but now concentrates on Harlequin Romance


—bringing you deeply emotional stories with vibrant characters.




A Miracle For Christmas

Grace Green







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my granddaughter, Robyn


CHAPTER ONE

DAMIAN MCALLISTER hissed out an oath as he glared at the toy store situated directly across the street from his office. That damned sign in the window! Its neon message had been winking at him since November and was driving him crazy:

Merry Xmas To U And Yours

I can’t stand it. He fisted a hand hard against the top of his mahogany desk. I can’t stand it one more minute.

He lurched to his feet.

‘Mrs. Sutton!’ he bellowed.

Marjorie Sutton, the McAllister Architectural Group’s senior secretary, put down the chocolate doughnut she’d been on the point of dunking into her morning coffee. Casting it a regretful sigh, she heaved her snugly corseted body out of her chair and walked through to the adjoining office.

Her boss’s blue eyes, she noted, had a wild expression, and his black hair looked as if he’d been trying to tear it out, strand by glossy strand. Yet she wished—as she did on a disturbingly regular basis considering she was quite happily married—that either she were thirty years younger or that the president of the M.A.G. wasn’t such a dreamboat.

‘Yes, sir?’ Her tone was light.

His answering scowl was dark. ‘Cancel all my appointments till the New Year. I’ve decided to take off for my place in Vermont earlier than planned.’ As he spoke, he kept his back rigidly to the window, though he could have sworn he saw the reflection of the toy store’s Christmas lights and gratingly upbeat message flickering on the wall facing him.

‘Are you feeling all right, Mr. McAllister? You look white. As if you’d...seen a ghost.’

The ghost of Christmases past. ‘I seem to be coming down with something...probably that flu that’s going the rounds.’ Dismissively he slackened the knot of his silk tie, and flicked open the top button of his gray shirt. ‘Now—’

‘What about the big party Friday night?’

‘Party?’

‘The Anthony Gould cocktail party. Your invitation came in the mail last month. You accepted, remember?’

Last month. When he’d convinced himself that this year would be different. This year he wouldn’t be a coward. This year he wouldn’t run from Christmas. ‘I remember. Gould’s going to be showing off his new fiancée.’ He cleared his throat...and winced. His tonsils felt as if he’d raked a cheese grater over them. He opened his desk drawer, rummaged till he found a cough drop and thrust it into his mouth. ‘Cancel,’ he mumbled around the cherry-flavored lozenge. The last thing I feel like doing at this moment is watching Boston’s finest parade his latest trophy—’

‘Mr. McAllister!’

He heard the chiding in her tone, but there was no evidence of remorse in his eyes...eyes that had begun to water as he felt a sneeze gather. ‘Phone.’ He accepted the man-size tissue his secretary obligingly whipped from the box sitting by his fax machine. ‘Get me off the hook?’

‘Right. So—’ she paused while his sneeze reverberated through the office and fluttered a blueprint that lay on his drawing board ‘—will that be all, sir?’

Grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair, he shrugged it on, and crossed to hold the door open. ‘I’ll leave everything in your capable hands.’

Mrs. Sutton walked past him but instead of taking her seat at her desk, stood by it...as if waiting for something.

He gritted his teeth. Season’s greetings, perhaps?

He opened his mouth, tried to say the words—Merry Christmas—but they stuck. He muttered something unintelligible. She could decipher his mumblings however she wished, he decided with a feeling of desperation.

And fled.

When he drove out of the underground parking lot a few minutes later, he kept his eyes averted from the Warmest Fuzzies Toy Store...and what a pie-in-thesky name that was! But even with his attention focused glazedly on the traffic ahead, he couldn’t block out the neon pattern of reds and greens winking from the store window...or the sound of the music blasting from a purple Corvette in the next lane...

Garth Brooks, informing him—and possibly everyone else in Boston—that ‘Love Came Down at Christmas.’

Stephanie Redford bit her lip uneasily as she searched the black-tie, black-dress crowd. Where was Tony? She had to talk with him right away. What the Whitneys had said—it was surely all a silly mistake—

Her taffeta blouse rustled as somebody trailed a light fingertip down her spine. She spun around, spilling a few drops of champagne from her glass...and there was Tony, his wavy blond hair gleaming under the crystal chandelier.

His pale eyes were warm with approval.

‘Darling.’ He ran a possessive hand up her arm in an intimate caress. ‘You’re a huge success. I’m so proud of you. Now you must come and be introduced to the Cabots. They’re eager to meet the future Mrs. Anthony Gould—’

‘Tony, the Whitneys just told me that you—’

‘Lower your voice, darling.’ A shadow of displeasure flickered over her fiancé’s patrician features. ‘Paula Whitney’s looking this way.’ Grasping her arm, with smoothly murmured apologies he wove a path through the crowd and out into the deserted hallway. This was the first party he’d put on at his penthouse condo since he’d had it redecorated, and Stephanie knew he wanted nothing to mar the occasion.

‘Now, darling—’ his lips were curved in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes ‘—what exactly is the problem?’

Stephanie placed her champagne glass on the Louis XVI table by her side and took in a deep breath.

‘The Whitneys,’ she said, ‘have just told me they’re delighted we’ve accepted their invitation to spend Christmas week with them at Aspen.’

‘You’ve never been to the Whitneys’ ski lodge, darling. It’s old-world bijou—you’ll love it—’

‘Tony, we agreed weeks ago that we’d drive to Rockfield and spend the holidays with my folks. The Redford clan always get together for Christmas—it’s a family tradition.’

Tony took her left hand and held it, palm down, by her fingertips. He let his gaze linger for a long thoughtful moment on her lustrous sapphire ring before he responded.

‘Stephanie, rm going to be marrying you soon. You’ll be a Gould, and we’ll be making our own traditions. You’ll be moving in a different circle. My circle. My friends all like you, darling—the Laskers, the Gibsons, the Loebs...’

Stephanie drew her fingers free. Although Tony’s condo was electronically kept at a very comfortable temperature, the air seemed suddenly chilly. ‘You promised, Tony. My parents are looking forward to meeting you—’

‘Darling.’ Tony’s eyes had a coaxing glint. ‘I believed the Whitneys were planning to go abroad this year, and they were... but their arrangements fell through, so they’ve organized this ski party and it’s going to be a blast—’

‘I don’t want to go to Aspen.’ Stephanie met his gaze steadily. ‘I want to go home.’

The tension that had been sputtering between them exploded with an intensity that rocked her. Tony obviously felt it, too. His eyes became wary, a nerve ticked in his neck, directly above his bow tie...

And then, with an unexpectedness that totally threw her, he grinned. Cocking a teasing brow, he drew her into his arms. ‘Darling,’ he said ruefully, ‘are we having our first fight?’ Without giving her a chance to reply, he pulled her hard against him and kissed her.

After a brief moment of resistance, Stephanie exhaled a sigh and yielded. She did love him so, and the comfort and pressure of his body, along with the expert thoroughness of his kiss, swiftly dissipated her tension. Tony loved her, just as she loved him, and he’d sworn, when he proposed to her, that he’d devote his life to making her happy. He wouldn’t let her down. Not on this. It was too important.

She pulled back, and looked up at him with a tender smile. ‘We’ll go, then,’ she said softly, ‘to Rockfield?’

He released her abruptly. ‘Stephanie.’ Irritation emanated from his every pore. ‘Have you not been listening to what I’ve been saying? We’re going to Aspen. You know how important the Whitneys are to me. They were my first clients when I set up my law practice, and they are still my biggest clients—’

‘You’re missing the point.’ Stephanie threaded a shaky hand through the heavy mass of chocolate brown hair that tumbled around her shoulders. ‘A promise is a promise. You just have to tell the Whitneys we’d already made plans. They seem like nice people... they’ll understand.’

‘I’m going to Aspen, Stephanie, let me make that quite clear. You have a choice. You can spend Christmas in Vermont with your family, or you can spend it in Colorado with me.’

Stephanie stared at him disbelievingly. ‘A choice... or an ultimatum?’

Her fiancé lifted his shoulders in a deliberate shrug. ‘If that’s how you want to look at it.’

What other way could she look at it? Tony believed he was giving her a choice, but he was wrong. She had promised her parents she’d be home for the holidays.

Her fingers trembled as she slipped off her engagement ring. She held it out, in the palm of her hand, and the sapphire had never looked more beautiful. Tony stared at it, didn’t take it. He was obviously taken aback. It was probably the first time in his life, Stephanie reflected as she struggled to control her welling unhappiness, that anyone had ever said no to Anthony Howard Gould III.

Gold tinkled against wood as she dropped the ring on the side table. ‘I’ll go and gather up my things, then.’

‘You’re making a mistake, Stephanie. Don’t do this to me.’ For the first time, there was urgency in Tony’s voice. ‘What am I to tell the Whitneys? What am I to—’

Stephanie brushed past him, and made for his bedroom. She was thankful she was managing to control her tears; they would wait, she prayed, till she could get to her van.

Her blue canvas bag was lying half open on the burgundy duvet draped over Tony’s bed. In it she could see a fold of her black lace negligee...the filmy, outrageously expensive negligee she’d been planning to wear later tonight, when she and Tony, for the very first time—

Fiercely she rasped the bag’s zipper closed.

She shrugged on her calf-length red coat, tucked her evening purse into one of the pockets, slung the canvas bag’s strap over her shoulder and hurried out to the hallway again. Once there she paused, and then, hesitantly, looked back. Her heart gave a painful lurch when she saw that Tony was standing where she had left him. His face was as devoid of color as the snow blanketing the world outside. For a moment, she wavered—but just for a moment. She tightened her lips and pulled her coat around her, as if it were a shield. If Tony didn’t believe in keeping promises, they had no future together.

Tonight, he had revealed a side of himself she hadn’t known existed. A side she didn’t like. It must always have been there, though...only she had been too blinded by love to see it; blinded by love and—yes, she admitted with raw honesty—bedazzled by the wonder and sheer exhilaration of being courted by one of Boston’s most eligible bachelors. She should have known better, she thought with an unfamiliar feeling of bitterness, than to get mixed up with someone from the so-called ‘upper crust.’ She shook her head grimly. That was one mistake she would never make again.

Her high-heeled shoes made no sound on the plush carpet as she crossed the hall toward the private elevator; the only sound she could hear was the leaden thud-thud-thud of her heartbeat against her breastbone.

She stepped into the elevator, and didn’t look around till the door began to close. Then it took only a glance to tell her that Tony was no longer standing in the hallway. It was once again deserted.

He hadn’t even waited till she was gone, she realized sorrowfully, before going back to join the party.

‘Tony Gould is a jerk.’ Janey Martin flopped down on Stephanie’s bed and watched as her flatmate rammed gaily wrapped stuffed animals into an enormous orange plastic bag. ‘Aspen indeed! I just hope he breaks a leg skiing.’

Stephanie chose not to respond to her friend’s uncharitable remarks. Instead she muttered a triumphant ‘Gotcha!’ as she finally succeeded in tucking in the neck of a two-foot-high giraffe.

‘He’s not only a jerk—’ Janey’s speckled gray eyes had a derisive expression ‘—he must be out of his mind! Where does he think he’s going to find someone like you again? Not in this life. And I’m not just talking about your looks, though Lord knows you’re gorgeous enough to be a movie star! You’re also one of the nicest people around.’

Stephanie secured the bulging bag with a twist tie, dragged it across the carpet and added it to the three others slumped by the door. Only then did she turn to Janey and say firmly, ‘I don’t want to talk about him anymore.’

‘Okay...but he was going to drive you to Rockfield in his Jag, and now you’re stuck with taking your old van, and you know it’s not all that reliable. It’s been stalling and—’

‘I’ll have my dad look at it when I get home.’

‘You should have someone look at it here, before you leave.’

‘Can’t afford garage bills right now—’

‘You almost wiped out your bank account with that Louis Féraud cocktail blouse.’ Janey sighed. ‘You were out of your league, sweetie pie—’

‘Janey...’ Stephanie’s tone had an edge of warning.

Janey scowled. ‘It’s just that I’m worried you might get stuck on a back road somewhere, and that’s no fun in these winter conditions. Why don’t you go home by bus?’

‘Can you see me carting all these bags onto a bus?’

‘Leave the toys. The kids won’t mind.’

‘My nieces and nephews won’t mind if they don’t get a sample of my Warmest Fuzzies for Christmas? Janey, my stuffed animals are a highlight of their holidays!’ Stephanie dusted her palms on the seat of her cream slacks. ‘Now if you’ll quit scolding and help me carry everything out to the van, I’d like to get on my way.’ She crossed to the dresser mirror, and sneaking the opportunity to blink away threatening tears, adjusted her white-trimmed red toque to a saucy angle that was at direct odds with her aching misery.

When she turned, it was with a bright smile.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’m ready.’ She scooped up her red coat from the end of the bed, and slipped it on.

Janey’s russet hair, waist-long and uncompromisingly straight, swung out like it were a sheet of flame as she got to her feet. ‘Have you called your parents? Do they know you’re coming home a day earlier than planned?’

‘No—oh, darn, how did you get down there!’ Stephanie bent to pick up a teddy bear from under the wicker rocking chair. He was her favourite creation this current season; soft and cuddly, in plush nutmeg brown, he had glass-bead eyes and an endearingly lifelike expression. She undid the thong fastening her duffel bag, and pushed the toy down atop her clothes. There wasn’t quite room, and as she started tightening the thong again, the bear’s head bounced out and he looked up indignantly, as if to say, Hey, I need air! Her lips curved in an amused smile as she gathered the thong firmly around his neck—

‘Steph...your parents?’

‘I haven’t told them. If they knew I was traveling on my own, they’d worry. We can talk once I get there.’

‘And the Warmest Fuzzies Toy Store?’

‘Joyce’s going to look after the store, and her daughter Gina’s going to help out. Apparently Gina’s expecting a baby in June, and she and her boyfriend are saving to get married, so the extra cash will come in handy.’

‘You seem to have everything under control.’ Janey took charge of two of the orange bags and led the way out to the corridor. ‘How long will you be on the road?’ she asked over her shoulder as Stephanie had a last look around.

‘Four or five hours.’ Trailing the remaining bags behind her, Stephanie followed her friend along the lobby of the triple decker building. ‘Since it’s the day before Christmas Eve, the traffic will in all likelihood be busy, but there’s been no new snow for the last few days so the roads should be okay...

‘With luck, I should reach Rockfield before dark.’

The day was bright when Stephanie left Boston, but by the time she reached Montpelier, where she stopped at an Esso station to fill her gas tank, the sky had changed ominously from its previous milky blue to a bruised charcoal gray.

‘Darkness is settin’ in early today.‘ The strawhaired attendant squinted heavenward as he returned her Visa card. ‘And a bad storm forecast for tonight. Goin’ far?’

‘Rockfield.’

‘Rockfield, huh? Watch out for them narrow mountain roads once you leave the highway. They can be right tricky this time of year.’

She gave him a wry smile as she agreed with him. And as he jogged away to attend a waiting truck, Stephanie promised herself she would indeed be very careful as she tackled those ‘right tricky’ mountain roads.

But when she turned the key in the ignition and a foreboding silence greeted her, she had to ask herself if she would be driving those roads that day at all. And after six increasingly frantic attempts to start the engine, she surrendered to the inevitable. Getting out, she clutched her coat around herself and made for the service bay, her nostrils prickling as they were exposed to the frosty air.

A mechanic came out and inspected the van’s innards. ‘Yup,’ he said, ‘we can fix ’er, but we won’t get to ‘er till tonight. You can pick ’er up after we close at nine.’

Nine! Good Lord, how was she going to fill in the time till then!

The mechanic directed her to a nearby mall, where she browsed aimlessly for a couple of hours, had a burger and then lingered for a long while over several cups of coffee, before taking in a movie. When she came out of the mall at quarter to nine, a gusty wind was whipping along the dark street—an icy cold wind, with the smell of fresh snow in it. Chin tucked into her coat collar, she hurried along to the gas station.

The van was ready and the repair cost a bundle. But as she headed out to Route 89, she decided that by the time her Visa bill came in, she should be able to meet it.

At least she had her van... and it was now reliable.

The blizzard struck after she’d left the highway.

She was on a side road, and emerging from the shelter of a covered bridge, when it hit with sudden savage force. Snow billowed down over the windshield, blinding her for a few unnerving seconds till she got the wipers going.

Oh, Lord, she thought, slowing as she peered into the porridge-thick mass and concentrated on keeping to her own side of the road, what have I let myself in for? If only Tony were here—

Scrub that thought! Anthony Howard Gould III was a fake—all style, and no substance. She needed him like she needed a hole in her head!

She had been driving for the best part of an hour when she realized to her dismay that somewhere along the way—disoriented by the storm—she had taken a wrong turning.

She knew that by this time she should have been climbing up the gentle mountain slope leading to Rockfield, not, as she was doing now, going downhill, leading to...?

With a feeling of growing horror, she noted that the gradient here was fast becoming dangerously steep. She braked, but the van gathered speed, continued to gather speed. Damn! She pressed her foot down on the pedal more firmly, praying the van would slow its pace. It didn’t.

She panicked. Rammed her foot to the boards.

The van slewed into a sideways skid.

With her fingers clawed around the steering wheel, she peered desperately into the dark and swirling storm.

And didn’t even see the snowbank till she was in it.


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.


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?’”





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