A Holiday to Remember. Lynnette Kent
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you don’t count the crashing headache, plus a full load of cuts and bruises, I’m great.”
“You do have blood on your face.” She reached a hand toward his cheek. “Where did it—”
But Chris pulled away before her fingertips made contact, taking a long step backward and putting as much distance between them as he could manage. “I’ll take inventory later. Did you say something about food?”
She looked stunned for a second, but then nodded. “Yes. You can get cleaned up in the staff restroom, and then we’ll get dinner. Just soup and grilled cheese sandwiches,” she said over her shoulder, heading in the same direction the girl, Sarah, had gone. “I hope that’s okay.”
“I’ll be happier if you have a beer to go with it.” Though Chris had never been inside Hawkridge Manor, what he’d seen so far lived up to the stories he’d heard. The marble floor and mahogany paneling of the two-story entry hall rivaled some palaces he’d photographed in other countries.
“Here’s the restroom.” The headmistress stopped beside a cherry paneled door with the appropriate gender sign. “The kitchen is on the right, three doors down. Join us when you’re ready.”
She continued in that direction, but stopped when he said, “Does that mean no beer?”
Without looking back, she said, “Strong coffee is the best I can do.”
Chris pushed the bathroom door open with his good shoulder. “Without beer,” he mourned, “this will be a bitch of a storm.”
The restroom behind the old-fashioned door was modern and convenient, but the surroundings did nothing to make him feel better. Indigo-colored bruises from his helmet had started showing up on his cheeks and chin, along with a cut on his right jaw that had bled like crazy until his circulation slowed with the cold.
Still, he’d survived, which he wouldn’t have bet on at the time. One of those tree trunks had come damn close to his head.
His leather jacket was a total loss—ripped at both shoulder seams, with the finish on the back sanded off by the asphalt pavement. He eased it off his shoulders and let it fall down his arms straight into the trash can.
The sweater he’d worn inside the jacket was still in good shape, but the collar of the shirt underneath had been soaked with blood, so he stripped to the waist. Pain from his dislocated shoulder stabbed at him with every move, and tomorrow it would spread across his chest and back, he knew. A glance at the mirror showed him the bruises outlining his ribs, not to mention the outlines of the ribs themselves. The months in Africa had been pretty rough. His shoulders had gotten bony, and his jeans hung loose on his hips. He’d really been looking forward to that meat loaf with Charlie tonight.
Not bothering to stifle his groans, Chris pulled the sweater back over his head, then wet his fingers and ran them through his hair to tame it. The ruined chaps had protected his jeans from major damage, except for being wet to the knees with snowmelt. He thought he looked decent enough for a sandwich with a bunch of schoolkids.
After food and some of that strong coffee, though, he planned to corner Juliet Radcliffe and drag the truth out of her. He would find out what was behind this stupid innocent act of hers if it took all night.
More important, he’d find out why she’d disappeared. And why she’d let him spend the last twelve years believing he’d killed her.
JAYNE ENTERED THE STAFF kitchen to find her seven students staring at a stack of charcoal bricks in place of the sandwiches.
Monique threw her hands in the air. “I can’t cook. And I shouldn’t have to. Meals are part of the deal here, right?” She stalked to the couch and plopped down, with her arms folded high across her chest and the bright beads on her many black braids clicking as they bounced. “I’m not gonna starve, either. Somebody had better make me something to eat.”
Jayne nodded. “That’s fine. You don’t have to cook. You can work with the cleanup crew after every meal.”
“No way.” Her skin, usually a soft shade of creamed coffee, darkened with an angry flush.
“Those are the rules,” Sarah said, without prompting from Jayne. “Staying at school over winter break means helping out with the chores. I’m not cooking extra food for somebody who won’t do her share.” She looked around at the other girls, who were nodding in response.
But Monique didn’t give in. “I don’t care. I’ll just go into town with that dude when he leaves.”
“I’m not leaving anytime soon,” a masculine voice answered. “You’ll get pretty hungry.”
The eight of them gasped in unison at the intrusion, then turned to see Chris Hammond leaning against the frame of the kitchen door.
“My bike is wrapped around a tree down by the road,” he continued. “And the snow’s a good six inches deep by now, with no sign of stopping.” He walked to the table and pulled out the chair on the end. “Ladies, I hope you don’t mind if I sit down. It’s been a long afternoon.”
Without waiting for their agreement, he lowered himself into the chair. From the way his face whitened as he bent his legs, Jayne guessed he’d suffered more than a dislocated shoulder in the crash. He needed food and warm liquids.
“Good point,” she said briskly, moving to pour a mug of coffee. “Girls, this is Mr. Hammond, our guest.” Each of the girls introduced herself in turn. “Since no one is going anywhere tonight, let’s give the grilled cheese sandwiches another try. How’s the soup coming?” She glanced into the pot, then at the knobs of the stove. “Turn up the heat, get it almost to a boil,” she told Selena. “Beth, set the table with plates and bowls. Yolanda can figure out what everyone wants to drink.”
Jayne put the coffee down beside the intruder’s left hand. “Sugar and cream?”
He shook his head and brought the mug to his lips, then managed to sigh as he swallowed. “That’s good,” he murmured. “Thanks.”
“Let me know when you want a refill.” She left him alone as she supervised the dinner preparations, making sure the sandwiches emerged from the pan unscorched, the soup didn’t boil over and there were napkins on the table. Making sure, as well, that she didn’t stare at him, didn’t notice—again—the sharp blue of his eyes under thick, spiky lashes, or his sensuous lower lip, or the breadth of his shoulders.
Where in the world was her mind wandering, in the midst of all these teenaged girls? Maybe adolescent angst was contagious.
With golden sandwiches piled high on a plate and chicken noodle soup ladled into nine bowls, Jayne told the girls to sit down and eat. When the flurry of movement subsided, two empty places remained—one beside Chris Hammond and the other at the far end, facing him. Over on the couch, Monique still pouted. So Jayne had the choice of sitting next to him or facing him as if they were parents on either end of the family table.
Avoiding the domestic image, she sat down in the chair at his left hand. She could pour more coffee that way, and monitor his conversation with the girls.
After all, what kind of man did they have stranded with them tonight? He might be a pedophile, for all she knew. He’d stalked her all over Ridgeville just yesterday. And he’d said—she’d blocked the memory in the urgency of the moment—he’d said he’d come to find out why she was lying about her name and about not knowing him. The very idea meant he was delusional, at least. He’d clearly mistaken her for someone else. At the worst, he might actually be mentally unstable.
But she couldn’t have left him out in the snow, injured and bleeding, even if she’d had a choice. Which she hadn’t, because he’d fallen in the door without waiting for permission. Was he dangerous? Would she and the girls all be murdered in their beds?
“What are you worrying about?”
She snapped