Sam kissed her again until she couldn’t think, let alone speak. When he lifted his head, he smiled down at her. “It’s okay,” he said. “We’ve got tonight to celebrate.”
She winced and groaned aloud as she remembered she’d already made a promise to her stepmother. “I promised Clarissa I’d go to the house for dinner. To celebrate. You have to come, too, so we can tell them our news together.”
He laughed and rested his forehead against hers. “Dinner with the family. Agreed. And I should probably have a talk with your dad about us anyway. But after, it’s just you and me.”
“Absolutely.” She couldn’t wait to get him alone. To feel his body sliding into hers. To hear him say he loved her again and to know that she would be with him forever.
“Since we missed our first Christmas together,” Sam was saying, “we’ve got some catching up to do.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked a little breathlessly.
“Well,” Sam said, “I’m thinking we’ll have some wine, sit in front of the Christmas tree and open our presents.”
“Presents?” she asked, confused.
He dropped his fingers to the snap of her jeans and flicked it open. Anna gasped as he undid her zipper and slid one hand across her abdomen. Then she understood. “Ah. Open our presents,” she said, moving into his touch. “Yep, that’s a great idea. We could even call it our first tradition.”
“You really are my kind of woman,” he mused, zipping up her jeans and snapping them closed again.
“And don’t you forget it,” Anna told him, her insides melting at the wild, wicked look in his eyes.
“Not a chance, babe.” Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles, then said, “Come on, I’ll drive you to Mateo’s. I don’t want you taking chances in this rain.”
Anna hugged him and whispered, “Rain? What rain? All I can see is sunshine and rainbows.”
While the rain pelted down from a steel-gray sky, inside the garage there was warmth and love and the promise of tomorrow.
Sam held on to her for another long minute, giving each of them a chance to settle. To relish the realization that they were together now and everything was going to be just as it should be.
“Happy New Year, Anna.”
“Happy New Year, Sam.”
MISTLETOE MAGIC by SANDRA HYATT
To the wonderful women and men of RWNZ and especially Barbara and Peter Clendon.
One
The babble of chatter and laughter ceased.
The only sounds left in the sudden hush of the living room were the rich baritone of Bing Crosby crooning “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and the crackle of the fire in the stone fireplace.
Perplexed, Meg Elliot turned, careful not to spill the pyramid of Christmas tarts from the silver tray in her hands.
And came face-to-face with a stranger.
Face-to-chest, actually. She had to look up from the navy polo shirt stretched across his shoulders to see his face. Dark, wavy hair, in need of a cut, brushed his forehead. He was clean-shaven and tanned. Too tanned for this time of year at Lake Tahoe, and not a skier’s tan. But it was the silver eyes boring into her with unreadable intent that stilled her.
She knew those eyes.
But she didn’t know this man.
She’d met so many people in the last few months, it was no surprise that she might forget a face. Except for the fact that this man was not the forgettable type-imposing, disconcerting and way too handsome.
How had he even gotten in? Caesar, guard dog extraordinaire, invariably created an unholy ruckus when anyone, even her friends, approached the house. It had taken him all of the three months she’d lived here to get used to her. And the stranger standing in front of her, silent and watchful, most definitely did not fall into the category of friend. He dropped a leather overnight bag to the carpet with a quiet thud.
There was something so expectant in the way he and, she realized, her guests, watched her. And waited.
The seconds ticked by. Who was he? She needed the answer to that single, simple question before she knew how to react.
He glanced up. Above her hung a chandelier, and incongruous among the glinting crystal dangled a sprig of mistletoe. Surely not?
Meg looked back at him, looked again into those eyes.
Eyes she’d only ever seen the likes of once before.
She felt the color drain from her face. He eased the tray from her hands, placed it on the table behind her. “Luke?” His name left her lips on a whisper.
He watched her struggle for calm, and his mouth stretched into a smile that held little humor. He slid large hands over her jaw to cup her face. “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he said softly as he lowered his head.
Too stunned to react, Meg stood rooted to the spot. Warm lips collided with hers. There was hunger in his kiss, hunger and a quest for control.
She wouldn’t react. Wouldn’t let herself react.
His fingers threaded into her hair as he claimed her mouth in a blatant attempt to dominate her, and then he gentled his kiss. That surprising gentling melted her defenses and dissolved rational thought.
He was alive. He was home. He was kissing her again.
He’d kissed her only once before. She’d thought her memories had been colored by the circumstances of the time.
Apparently not.
This kiss was every bit as beguiling and as latent with promise as that first one.
But the moment she found herself kissing him back, reaching for him, he lifted his head and then set her away from him as though it was she who had initiated the kiss and he needed to put distance between them to prevent her from doing it again.
Dimly, she heard a burst of applause.
Her awareness returned. Her guests-the organizing committee for tomorrow night’s charity dinner-were witnessing this scene play out. She felt the color rush back to her cheeks.
Luke’s gaze didn’t leave her face. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling? I saw only a few familiar faces.”
Not daring to look away, she said, “Everyone,” and the word came out a hoarse whisper that made him grin a shark’s grin. She cleared her throat. “This is Luke Maitland. My husband.”
Then it all happened in a blur: hugs, congratulations, assurances that they knew she’d want to be alone with her husband after his unexpected return. Within minutes she and the stranger she’d married stood together at his front door as the quiet purr of the last departing vehicle faded into the night.
Meg stepped out and away from the arm he had draped possessively and firmly-as though he knew she wanted to bolt after that final car-over her shoulder. Frigid air wrapped itself around her in its stead.
He followed close as she led the way back to the high-ceilinged living room. His living room. Platters of nibbles still sat on the coffee table, Bing still sang, but everything had changed.
Those eyes. How could she not have known him instantly?
Finally, when the silence had stretched way beyond comfortable, Meg spoke. “You’re looking…better.” The last time she’d seen him he’d been lying, pale and unshaven, on a makeshift hospital bed on an Indonesian island. And taller. In the few days she’d spent with him, he’d invariably been lying down, or bent with pain when he’d tried to stand. Illness had a way of diminishing people. There was nothing diminished about him now. Upright and strong, he comfortably cleared six foot.
“Disappointed?” he asked quietly.
The question stunned her. “No! How can you ask that? I thought you might die.”
“So did I. But that wouldn’t necessarily have worked out badly for you.” He glanced around the sumptuous living room.
They’d spent only a few days together, but she’d thought she’d had a bond with the observant, insightful man in her care. A man who, despite his pain, had made her laugh. The man she remembered had been nothing like this-cool and distant. Suspicious. Then again, the man she remembered had been close to death. “No, it would have worked out terribly.”