A Miracle For Christmas. Grace Green
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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