Cold Feet at Christmas

Cold Feet at Christmas Debbie Johnson ‘Fun, sexy and fabulously festive, Debbie Johnson's escapist romance travels from snow-capped mountains in Scotland to the glamour of 21st century Chicago. I enjoyed every minute of it.’ – Best-selling author, Jane CostelloRunning out on your wedding shouldn’t be this much fun!A remote Scottish castle on a snowy Christmas Eve. A handsome husband-to-be. A dress to die for. It should have been the happiest day of Leah Harvey’s life – but the fairytale wedding turns sour when she finds her fianc? halfway up the bridesmaid’s skirt just hours before the ceremony!Fleeing the scene in a blizzard, Leah ends up stranded at the nearest cottage, where she collapses into the arms of its inhabitant – a man so handsome she thinks she must have died and gone to heaven!And when Rob Cavelli suddenly finds himself with an armful of soaking wet, freezing cold, and absolutely gorgeous bride on the run, he’s more than happy to welcome her into his snowbound cottage this Christmas…‘Superb…like a fabulous breath of fresh air and I fell in love with the warm, witty, sexy writing style from the very first page’ – Holly Martin, bestselling author of ‘Christmas at Lilac Cottage’ Cold Feet at Christmas DEBBIE JOHNSON A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Copyright (#u7e03b646-da9f-5296-b152-199789aa6292) HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014 Copyright © Debbie Johnson 2014 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Debbie Johnson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © November 2014 ISBN: 9780007594559 Version 2018-02-15 Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress. For Jane and Mark – who renewed my faith in happy endings! Contents Cover (#u160adcc6-c529-56e6-9f39-3dc171ae0b9b) Title Page (#u578b9f5d-0f80-50ff-935f-206ecc36a2d7) Copyright Dedication (#ud68ad39b-6fcf-5d72-a414-7390797a6e81) Chapter 1 (#ufcec10f3-976d-5864-a511-f3567d402de0) Chapter 2 (#ue56ef00f-e589-5497-8425-6c94b283b706) Chapter 3 (#ua38c1d60-e445-5f04-a94b-c4522e847e48) Chapter 4 (#ub705f42b-b342-5c20-9055-526a6405b823) Chapter 5 (#u4624cf8e-63f8-56a4-aeef-2c53fe99616d) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) If You Like Debbie Johnson You’ll Love Lynn Marie Hulsman… (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Debbie Johnson… Debbie Johnson (#litres_trial_promo) About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 1 (#u7e03b646-da9f-5296-b152-199789aa6292) Jimmy Choo’s finest. Pleated white satin. Four inch heels. ?500 a pop. For that, you’d expect them to be waterproof, thought Leah Harvey. Or at least to come with jet packs so she could fly out of this godforsaken frozen wasteland, and off to the nearest hotel. Ideally one with a spa, hot and cold running chocolate and Greek god waiters who hand-feed you peeled grapes. Instead, she was here. In the snow. On Christmas Eve. In the middle of Scottish countryside so remote even the bloody sheep looked like they’d need a sat nav to find their way home. The lights on the dashboard flickered on and off, casting a final ghostly neon glow before fading into nothingness. She turned the key in the lifeless ignition for the fifteenth time; held her frozen hands in front of the now defunct heating vents, and swore. Long, loud, and with such creative use of foul language that eventually she honked the horn to drown herself out. A self-imposed bleep machine to hide the fact she could make a flotilla of sailors blush. She undid her seatbelt, noticed that the elegant satin of her ivory dress was now crushed and creased beyond redemption. Not that it mattered. It’s not like she’d be using that particular piece of haute couture again. Climbing out of the cocoon of the car, her feet immediately sank ten inches into freezing cold snow. Her bare shoulders shook with cold, and her fingers and toes decided they weren’t even connected to her body as the chill factor took hold. More swearing. This time without the bleep machine. Nearby foxes were probably holding their paws over their cubs’ ears. Great, she thought, turning round to kick the broken-down piece-of-crap car that belonged to her cheating bastard husband-to-be, scuffing the Jimmy Choos in the process. Just great. The perfect end to a perfect day. A gust of icy wind howled up the skirt of her dress, frost nipping at places it had no right to be. Not on the first date, at least. She should be wearing bearskin in weather like this, not a skimpy stretch of silk masquerading as underwear. She had two choices, Leah decided, teeth chattering loud enough to turn her into a one-woman percussion section. Option One: stay in the car. Wait for help that might never come, as nobody had a clue where she was. Including her. Freeze overnight, and potentially get pecked to death by starving crows she’d be too weak to fight off. The only things left of her would be satin stilettos and her engagement ring. Option Two: do a Captain Oates and head off across the field to the light she could just about see in the distance. A light must mean habitation, which must mean a human being. Possibly a psychopathic serial killer, or maybe a sex-starved sheep farmer planning Christmas dinner with his collection of blow-up dolls, which, she decided, hitching up the soggy hem of her gown, was still preferable to the crows-pecking-out-eyeballs scenario. She headed for the light. As she trudged through the fields of snow, she conjured up a playlist of Christmas songs in her head to try and cheer herself up. Or at least help her resist the urge to simply lie down in the ice and sleep. Feed the World. Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Chestnuts Roasting On an Open Fire. Merry Christmas, Everyone…Yeah, right, she thought, slinging her bag over her shoulder and continuing the slow, painful trek to her saviour. A saviour who probably had one eye, a large collection of shotguns, and slept with his teeth in a jar. *** Roberto Cavelli had just finished reading a letter from his mother when the knock came at the door. The contents of the letter didn’t surprise him – mommy dearest urging him to move on, remarry and give her the grandchildren she so richly deserved. She’d been telling him the same thing for the last two years, and he’d come no closer to settling down. Plenty to bed, none to wed; which suited him fine. But this time she played all her guilt cards: she was getting older, she’d been so ill, she didn’t know if she’d even be here by next Christmas…As if, he thought, smiling. Dorothea Cavelli was about as ill as a prize-winning ox in the prime of its life. And she was equally full of bull. Find a wife, she kept telling him. Pretty much every day, but with special intensity at Christmas, Easter and, her personal favourite, his birthday – because, quote, ‘you’re not getting any younger, darling’. Since when had 34 been declared officially old? Had there been some kind of United Nations ruling that he’d missed out on? Would he be euthanised at 35 if he hadn’t started to procreate? And how come the fact that his twin brother Marco was still playing the field seemed okay with her? He was only an hour younger, for Christ’s sake. How come he got a pass on the next-generation nagging? Well, he didn’t want a new wife, thank you very much. He still missed the old one. And even if he did, even if he admitted he was starting to feel the slow spread of loneliness creeping across his heart like a silken cobweb, it wasn’t that easy. You couldn’t just go and buy one from Wives R Us. Well, you probably could, but that wasn’t the kind of marriage he’d ever be interested in. Rob knew that not everyone found love behind every door; and not everyone found their soul mate…definitely not twice. He’d had it once, and he’d let it slip away. Some people just weren’t meant to have it, simple as that. And some people – like him – simply didn’t deserve it. He’d got used to the idea, learned to function alone, to fake a contentment that he didn’t feel. It was over for him. He understood that, and accepted it as part of his fate. His mother, apparently, hadn’t. She always had been a stubborn old coot. So while the letter didn’t surprise him – in fact it was depressingly predictable, the way she chased him all over the world to give him a ticking off - the hammering on the door did. He stayed at this cottage for the same two weeks every year. Hiding away for Christmas. Giving himself the greatest gift of all – time away from the sympathetic eyes of his family; from the work that dominated his life; from the ghosts of Christmas past. And during all that time, he’d never once heard a single knock. No visitors, no neighbours, no TV – exactly the way he liked it. Just him, several bottles of very good whiskey, and a suitcase full of books. In fact, when he’d first heard the noise, he’d assumed it was another snowfall – waves of the stuff had been thudding off the roof all night. When he realised it was actually someone banging on the door to the cottage, he instinctively glanced at his watch. After 11pm. Practically the witching hour out here in the Aberdeenshire wilderness. Man, woman and beast would all be tucked up in bed. Who on earth would be traipsing around in the snow on Christmas Eve? Nobody in their right minds, that’s for sure, he thought, walking cautiously towards the door. Maybe, he thought, as he moved away from the comfort of his spot in front of the fire, it was Santa. With an army of marauding elves. They must have heard about the 50-year-old Glenfiddich he was hiding and formed a raiding party. Well, he wouldn’t go down without a fight. Even to a fat man in a red suit. *** Please God; please Santa; please Buddha…Please anyone out there who’s listening – let there be someone in, prayed Leah. And let them open the bloody door. I don’t care if they’re evil or have two heads or want to slice me up and eat me with a nice bottle of Chianti. As long as they let me get warm first, I’ll go willingly. Anything for a hot drink and a pair of bloody bed socks. It had taken almost twenty minutes to stagger there, and she knew she was in serious trouble. She couldn’t feel anything other than pain: stabbing fingers of cold, all through her body, like daggers of ice. Not just going-clubbing-without-a-jacket cold, but proper this-could-be-your-last-Christmas cold. Real, genuine, get-her-a-tin-foil-blanket-or-she’ll-die-of-hypothermia cold. The kind you just never encountered in the city, where there was always a McDonald’s to nip into, or a bus shelter full of drunks willing to share their body heat. This was different. And if she’d been capable of thinking straight, she’d have been terrified. If there was no one in – if the cottage was abandoned, with lights left on to scare off the admittedly unlikely burglars – she was done for. The soul-destroying walk would have been for nothing, and the crows would get her after all. The bastards. The door finally swung open. She felt tears of relief spring to her eyes, then freeze immediately on her mascara-clumped lashes. She looked up, saw the orange glow of a hissing log fire inside; felt the spill of its light and warmth spreading toward her. Even that tiny lick of heat was enough to make her skin tingle with hope. Standing right in front of her, silhouetted in the flickering shade and wavering shadows cast by the blaze, was God. Or at least it looked that way to Leah. Surely this creature was too divine to be a mere mortal? Well over six foot; midnight black hair; chocolate drop eyes, a strong jaw just the right side of stubble, wearing a thick cable knit sweater and carrying a glass of whiskey. He certainly looked Almighty enough for her right now. “Hallelujah…” she muttered, and collapsed into his arms. *** The last thing Rob expected to see when he opened the door was a woman. No, not just a woman – a bride. A very, very beautiful one at that. Even shaking in her stupidly inappropriate heels she barely scraped five three, but what she lacked in height she made up for in curves. Curves he could clearly see under the satin dress that was soaked onto her like paint; curves that were currently covered in goosebumps; curves that were in fact starting to turn blue. Blonde hair, piled up on her head in a tiara, trailing around her face in tendrils; huge eyes gazing up at him like he was the second coming. Lord, those eyes. The colour of the whiskey in his glass. Pure amber. Lashes tipped by ice flakes; lips parted and shaking as she stared. The Snow Queen looking for her groom. How on earth had his mother managed this? She was a resourceful woman, but surely even she hadn’t been able to deliver a wife for Christmas? Before he had time to pull a sentence together, the blue-tinged bride on his doorstep muttered one word – he wasn’t sure, but it might have been ‘Hallelujah’ – and fell forward against him. The whiskey glass was knocked from his hand, splashing him with wildly expensive booze and smashing to the floor. He scooped the woman up into his arms and carried her inside, using one foot to kick the door shut against the howling wind and gusts of icy sleet trying to get in and join the party. He gently laid her down on the sofa, stroking the melting snow from her cheekbones. She was so pretty…And so cold. Tearing his eyes away from the ample breasts that were now almost peeking out of the strapless satin sheath she was wearing, he grabbed one of the crocheted woollen blankets that were draped on the backs of the furniture, and covered her up. She was in danger of hypothermia. And he was in danger of developing a self-worth problem if he carried on letting his eyes go where they had no right to be. This was not an appropriate time for his libido to come out and play. He rubbed her hands, leaned over her. Heat. She needed heat. The fire was roaring. The blanket was warm. And he was feeling surprisingly hot himself. Her fingers were like icicles in his grasp, and the breath coming from her lips was still so cold it was clouding into steamy gusts in the air. He edged closer – inches from her face, searching for any kind of response. Suddenly, her lids snapped open, and those amber eyes latched onto his. He expected to see shock. Fear. Anxiety. Instead, she murmured ‘thank you baby Jesus, Amen’. Kissed him full on the lips. And promptly passed out. Chapter 2 (#u7e03b646-da9f-5296-b152-199789aa6292) “Am I dead?” Leah asked almost 16 hours later, when she finally swam back to consciousness. She’d woken when God walked into the room. He was dressed in faded Levis and a black jersey T-shirt that clung to the muscles of his arms and torso like liquid. He looked suitably celestial, and to top it off was carrying a mug of hot chocolate. With squirty cream on top. For some reason, the words ‘squirty cream’ and ‘torso’ blended into one in Leah’s brain, resulting in images that were far too vivid to be about God. Positively blasphemous, in fact. If this was Heaven, it had been worth all those years of Sunday school… She was cocooned in a million tog duvet, her body – naked, which she didn’t want to ponder too closely - stretching and writhing beneath the warm fabric, luxuriating in the sensation of soft, cosy heat. Her hair was dry; her fingers had regained a full range of movement, and she could even feel her long-lost toes again. As if that wasn’t enough, here he was – her saviour. Sex on a stick and bearing sinful hot beverages. She squeezed her eyes shut, gave her head a shake: Heaven. Must be. The last two days had certainly been enough like purgatory. “I certainly hope you’re not dead,” he answered, perching on the side of the bed, long thighs stretching on forever. “Or I wasted a heck of a lot of good whiskey in this mug.” “You’re American. I never thought God would be American…” Leah muttered, struggling to sit up straight then realising she had no clothes on and wriggling back down. “I am,” he replied. “American that is. Not God. Although some would say I had delusions of grandeur on that front as well. Glad to see you’re feeling well enough to talk. All you did last night and the best part of today was sleep, and sometimes shout about the Hollandaise sauce curdling. Very mysterious. Would it be too much to ask a few questions? Like who you are? And how you ended up here? It’s Christmas Day. In the middle of nowhere. And you were definitely dressed for a very different kind of occasion…” As he finished speaking, Rob saw her eyes flicker over to the hard-backed chair in the corner of the bedroom, take in the fact that her wedding dress, panties, stockings and suspenders were draped over it. He steeled himself for some kind of female hysteria. Because even he – a dumb male of the species — could tell that outfit had presumably been expected to accompany the best day of her life, not one where she nearly died and woke up in a stranger’s bed. Buck naked. He’d been trying very hard not to focus on that bit, but as soon as he thought of the words, he felt a familiar twitch in his groin that he knew could embarrass him anytime soon. Should’ve brought a copy of the paper in with him, ideally a broadsheet. Leah was quiet for a moment, a small frown marring the milky skin of her forehead as she pieced together the parts of the puzzle. He expected only one possible conclusion: tears, screaming, and possibly physical violence. Roberto Cavelli took a deep breath in, coiling his muscles ready to run for cover if needed. There was a time to fight, and a time to hide in the broom cupboard, and a wise man knows the difference. Over-emotional women had him sitting on the sweeper every time. He’d leave the cocoa, and run for his life. Instead, she looked back at him, and smiled. Just like that. A big, gorgeous, open-hearted smile. No shouting. No screaming. No tears. Not even a quivering lower lip. He exhaled, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Wow. Maybe she really was from Santa… “My name’s Leah Harvey,” she said, sticking her hand out to shake. She kept the rest of her body covered up, managing to awkwardly extend one warm, soft-skinned arm and still look cute. He took her hand in his. It was rude to refuse a handshake, and the Cavelli boys had been raised right. With the first touch of those soft fingers, he knew he’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t be touching this woman at all, even in a hazmat suit. Not with her all warm and curvy, and nude, under those covers. And him with a rapidly developing Crotch Crisis of the first degree. He was going to come across as an utter pervert, damn it. As her hand clung to his, a tiny spark shot right up his wrist, crawling under his skin like electricity. She felt it too. He could tell by the way she jumped at the sensation. It made the bits of her showing above the duvet jiggle around in a way that did nothing to deter Mr Happy down below. Rob pulled away as quickly as was polite, and crossed his legs. “Ooh! Did you feel that?” Leah said, giggling and rubbing her wrist. “Must be some kind of weird static thing!” Yeah. That’d be it, he thought, watching with way too much interest as she manoeuvred herself upright, clutching the sheets in front of her breasts. Her creamy cleavage was mainly hidden by the bedding, but not quite enough to stop a slight spillage of generous flesh over fabric. Lord, think of something disgusting, he said to himself. Like your brother’s sweaty jock strap. Like your 98-year-old Great Aunt Mimi in a bikini. Anything but that killer body in front of you. Not that he hadn’t seen it all last night when he’d put her to bed – but that had felt different. That was for medicinal purposes only. He was merely applying correct first aid by stripping her bare of those sodden clothes, that was all. And anyway, he did most of it with the lights off, averting his eyes like a gentleman. None of which had been easy. “So, what’s your name?” she asked, her pink tongue peeking out from between generous lips to lick the cream off the top of her drink. Aunt Mimi, Aunt Mimi, Aunt Mimi. “Rob,” he snapped, sounding a little more terse than he planned. He’d never liked Aunt Mimi. Nasty old coot. “Okay…Rob. Well, yesterday I was supposed to get married.” “Yeah. My eagle-eyed powers of deduction told me that. Wedding dress and all,” he said, nodding towards the now distressed gown hanging limply over the chair back. Leah looked at it and sighed. “Well, it was supposed to be the whole fairytale deal, you know? Remote Scottish castle. Handsome prince. The only problem was I discovered the handsome prince – Doug — playing hide the sausage with one of the bridesmaids an hour before the service.” “Hide the sausage?” he said, eyebrows raised, slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. A mouth, Leah thought, that looked as sinful as his hot beverages. Her eyes lingered on the way his lips curved upwards on one side, like they were asking a question. Wide and full and firm and utterly kissable. Not like Doug’s. He had skinny lips. Like his face was so mean it couldn’t even spare the flesh. Funny how she’d never noticed that until yesterday. Somehow, seeing him upended in a pile of taffeta had revealed all kinds of little flaws. “Yes. I’m sure you get the picture. And believe me, he wasn’t wearing anything under his kilt either.” “That’s… bad. You must be devastated.” Rob stared at her, thinking as he did that she looked the exact opposite of devastated: to him, she looked all silky blonde hair; wide amber eyes, smiling lips. Lips that were now covered in a cream moustache that he’d dearly like to lick off. There was no sign of impending nervous breakdown, which in itself was off-putting. She’d caught her fianc? cheating; abandoned her wedding, and ended up almost dead on his doorstep – yet seemed calm and content. Maybe he should call the paramedics. “I know,” she said. “It is bad. As bad as it gets. And I should be devastated, shouldn’t I? I did what any sane woman would – ran away. Grabbed his car keys and legged it. It was only when the bloody thing broke down across that continent of a field last night I realised I might have been a bit hasty. All I have with me is a bag, a phone with no charger, and some make up. Hence my rather bizarre appearance last night. If I’m honest, Rob, which I always try to be, I ran because I realised I just didn’t care. “It should have broken my heart to see his scrawny little backside pumping up and down on top of Becky, but it didn’t. I actually felt nothing but relief. It was like something inside me needed to see it, to make me come to my senses. I didn’t want to marry him at all. It was more of a wake-up call than a heartbreak. Plus, you know, the whole almost dying of hypothermia thing – it does put things into perspective. I’m alive. I’m warm. I’m drinking hot chocolate and whiskey – very nice, by the way – none of which I expected to be doing last night.” “Perhaps you’re in shock,” he suggested. “And you’ll start your meltdown any minute now.” She raised an eyebrow, seemed to ponder the idea. “Yes,” she replied. “You could well be right. But don’t worry – I’ll give you some advance notice if I feel it coming on, and you can make sure you’re doing something more attractive, like pulling out your own toenails. Right now, though, I feel quite weirdly calm. I’m worrying about the practical things – what happens next. I work with him. For him, really. We share a home, a car. An iTunes account. Everything. And I left it all behind like it was nothing. The only problem was, my great escape—” “Landed you here. With a man you don’t know. On Christmas Day.” “Yep. Oops-a-daisy. I’m sorry if I’ve intruded; if I’ve put you out in any way. And I’m really embarrassed I did a swooner on you as well. Damsel in distress and all that – not usually my style. But I was so cold, and you were so warm.” And gorgeous, Leah continued in her mind. And tall. And hunky. Shoulders so wide they filled the doorframe. Legs so long he could probably leap mountains in a single stride. She could have been hallucinating it all last night, but in the warm light of day, he was even better looking: those velvet brown eyes, completely unreadable. That stubble-coated jaw you could strike a match on. Large hands, wrapped around his own mug, fingers oh-so-long. Denim-clad thighs you could so easily see wrapped around you. He was the sexiest man she’d ever seen, and even looking at him was a sensual feast. She could only imagine what touching would be like. His name might be Rob – but she was sticking with God. And God, she suddenly noticed, was wearing a wedding ring. In fact, he’d put his mug down and was turning the gold band around and around on his finger, twisting it so hard it must have hurt. Ah. He must have been able to read her mind when she was having inappropriate thoughts about him. Or maybe she’d just dribbled. And now, he was sending her a message: back off, taken man. Received, understood, and undoubtedly for the best, she decided. She was insane to even be thinking of him in that light – right now she should have been starting life as Mrs Anderson, on honeymoon in St Lucia. Instead she was eyeing up tall, dark and gorgeous here, and wondering if he fancied slipping under the duvet for a quick game of tonsil tennis. Maybe she’d taken a bang to the head when she collapsed. Maybe she was experiencing some weird kind of frost-related hormone rush. Maybe she had an undiagnosed multiple personality disorder and would start speaking in fluent Finnish any minute now. He wasn’t even her usual type. Way too big and broad and dark and foreign and sexy. For God’s sake, what woman in her right mind would fancy that? She suppressed a giggle, and started to wonder if the concussion angle might be real. She couldn’t ever remember having this kind of physical response to a strange man before. In fact, to any man at all. It was completely out of character, but nobody seemed to have told her body that. Her body was convinced that he was its very best friend, and was getting all warm and squishy to prove it. Even though he was now practically scowling at her, she still had the urge to reach out and touch his jawline, run her fingernails over the stubble and see if it prickled; to trace the bold outline of those lips with her tongue…MARRIED, she shouted at herself. Silently. Even if her body had lost all moral fibre, she wasn’t going to start ravishing married men. He could still be a serial killer anyway, even if he did have the looks of a slightly fallen angel. The way he was looking at her right now, for example, was unsettling. There was quite a lot of Leah on show, she realised, which didn’t bother her. She had no problems with body image, and could count her inhibitions on one hand. But his eyes were so dark; his pupils large and black and focused so intensely on hers that she started to feel breathless. Neither of them was speaking, but the air between them seemed to sing, to thrum with some kind of energy. Even the expression on his chiselled face was creating a throbbing pulse between her legs. If someone lit a match, the room would go kaboom, there was so much spark. “Don’t worry about it,” he said finally, his voice clipped and short and tense. For a moment she couldn’t recall what she’d even said. Oh yes. An apology for disturbing him. Swooning on him. Drooling on him. Fantasising about him. “There are women’s clothes in the wardrobe,” he snapped. “I think you’ll be way too big for them, though. If you are you’ll have to use something of mine.” Right, Leah thought, nodding and smiling as best she could. Thanks a million, mate. That comment definitely slowed the pulse rate down a beat or two: nothing like being called a heifer by an attractive man to kill the mood. She knew she was more voluptuous than was fashionable these days, but she’d never had hang-ups. Men seemed to like it, too. Doug certainly had, until he’d decided he preferred the bridesmaid. But after those marvellously chosen words from Rob, she felt about as feminine as a prop forward for the England rugby team. Too big for women’s clothes. Wear something of his. Surely the fool realised that his clothes would swamp her, D-cups notwithstanding? Stupid idiot man. This particular stupid idiot man seemed to realise he’d said something wrong, as he frowned, glowered, and stood up abruptly. He marched out of the room, absently running his hands through his hair and murmuring something about needing to chop down some trees. He was still muttering as the door slammed shut behind him. Okay, thought Leah, scampering out of bed and darting through the chilly air to the wardrobe. Weird situation, but deal with it. So he’s moody. Probably some eccentric artist type, holed up here in a stone cottage on his own for Christmas. Without his wife…What kind of a wife would let a man like that out of her sight for any length of time anyway? None of your business, she reminded herself firmly, holding up a pair of jeans that would never in a million years fit her. Surely they were made for a child, not a full-grown woman? No way her hips and bottom would shoehorn themselves into that thimble-full of denim. He must be married to a midget. Okay, that wasn’t fair. Speaking as a woman who only topped five foot on a big hair day, Leah knew there was nothing wrong with being vertically challenged. But this midget must also be really skinny. The kind who made a single pomegranate seed last all day, with one low-fat raisin for pudding. The bitch. She had better luck with a pair of stretchy leggings, and a plain long-sleeved white T-shirt. Admittedly it looked like it was sprayed on, and there was no bra anywhere near her size. The wedding dress had some kind of industrial strength cantilever device built in, robust enough to support the Forth Bridge, never mind her boobs. Now she had nothing, unless she wanted to wander round like Miss Haversham all day, in a dirty, torn bridal gown. Yet another genius move on her part. If only she’d known she’d be doing a runner from her own wedding, she’d have packed an overnight bag. She’d kill for her own knickers right now. She turned and stared into the mirror, examining her ensemble. Oh well, she thought, I am most definitely a beggar, and therefore can’t afford to be a chooser. And anyway, you can’t really see my nipples. Not unless you look really hard. Or they start to misbehave in the cold. She tugged and pulled at her hair, trying to dislodge some of the dried-on product that had moulded it around her tiara, and decided that was as good as it was going to get. “Hey, Rob?” she shouted as she emerged back into the living area. “Are you still in here? Are you chopping down trees, and if not, can I use your phone? Mine’s out of juice and I really need to organise getting out of here.” Getting out of here and getting home as quickly as possible, she decided, was today’s mission impossible. Yesterday’s had been escape, and later survival. Now she had to move on. To London. To their flat. To get whatever she needed and leave, before she had to face Doug again. To disappear to Timbuktu. Take a midnight train to Georgia. Join a commune in Marrakesh. Become a nun – if they took nuns in when they were 25. Whatever it took to save her dignity and spare them both the useless recriminations. Some relationships simply weren’t fixable. Funny how she’d not even admitted to herself it was broken until yesterday. Years of limping along, so used to the problems that they’d become normal. That would hurt at some point, she knew, but not now. Now she needed to be practical. “There’s no signal here,” Rob said, emerging from the kitchen, holding a tea towel. He’d obviously decided to dry the dishes before he went logging. He stopped dead in front of her, and stared like she’d grown a third eye. “What?” she said, feeling alarmed. “What’s wrong?” “That…that top.” “Oh! That. I know. You were right about the clothes. It doesn’t really fit, does it?” “No,” he replied, still staring. “You’re more…” he trailed off, making vague body-shape gestures in the air with his hands. “More what?” she asked. Voice quiet. Hands on hips. Eyes narrowed. Oh-oh, Rob thought, recognising that tone. Danger, danger. Tread carefully, lost soul, or you may never pee straight again. “More…womanly?” he said, looking at her cautiously, one eyebrow raised in a question. She nodded, seemed happy enough with that, thank God. He came here every year for peace and quiet, and he could do without a cat fight with someone he barely knew to bring in the festive season. Although, he thought, taking another look at that T-shirt and what jiggled beneath, there were some parts of her he was getting to know quite well already. Maybe he’d become immune with repeated exposure, like with flu or chicken pox. Or maybe, a faint stirring in his nether regions told him, not. “I can see your nipples through that material,” he said, dragging his eyes away. “I think that’s probably illegal. And if not, it should be.” “Oh,” she replied, looking down at her own chest, realising that even his glance had made the nipples in question do some quite embarrassing things. She looked back up, blushing. “I didn’t think you could see unless you looked really really hard.” “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a man,” he said. “And it’s in our nature to always look at these things really really hard.” Leah laughed out loud, throwing her head back so the creamy skin of her throat was exposed. Rob, being still male, couldn’t help but notice the way the movement made her breasts jut out just a fraction more as she filled her lungs with air and giggled. He wanted to pull that skin-tight T-shirt up, and bury his face in them. Lord, how was he expected to resist her? Should he even try? Where had this sudden attack of morality come from anyway? Must be a Christmas thing. He’d been infected with goodness. Hopefully it was only temporary. He was only flesh and blood, after all. “I had actually noticed you’re a man,” she said, liquid amber eyes running over his body, taking a lazy inventory of what she saw. Slowly she looked him up and down: legs that seemed as long as her whole body; Levis clinging low to his hips; the curved ridge of pectoral muscles evident through the jersey top. Powerful shoulders, biceps that flexed even as she looked…Gosh, he was an absolute treat. She stared, licked her lips, and filed the image away in her brain. Under S for Sexbomb. He might be married, but that hadn’t made her blind. She couldn’t be the only woman who noticed how handsome he was, and anyway, there was no harm in window shopping. Look, but don’t touch: the same theory she had for the Stella McCartney shop in Selfridges. Except, in this case, it was harder to resist. She couldn’t help wondering if those biceps were as firm as they looked, if that chest was as hard and sculpted as it seemed under the long-sleeved T; how that backside would feel snuggled into the grip of her hands. Whether the tell-tale bulge she could see in his jeans was as promising as the ever-tightening denim suggested. Her eyes lingered low, and she had the suspicion the answer to that one was a resounding ‘yes’. Stop it, Leah Harvey, she told herself. Look at his ring finger instead. Left hand. He’s married. To an anorexic dwarf. And anyway, this is not the time for new romance. Or even hot, dirty sex. Your life’s in tatters. The man you were about to spend the rest of your years with is a philandering pig. You have no job. No home. No money. And you’re supposed to have a broken heart. Except it wasn’t exactly her heart she could feel beating right now. It was something lower, and altogether more primal. She gazed into those dark brown eyes, and had the sense they could stand like that forever, both of them feeling that same beat, both of them frozen in time. They’d be discovered in hundreds of years’ time by archaeologist; sexually frustrated mannequins, looking but never touching. Rob broke eye contact first. He shook his head like a wet dog shedding rain, and murmured something so indistinct it sounded to her like ‘Aunt Mimi’. He looked instead out of the window, into the distance. The fields for miles around were white with virgin snow, with more still falling, drifting to the ground like cotton wool buds made of crystal. “No mobile signal,” he repeated. “No landline. No internet. Roads unpassable. And the front door’s barely opening, there’s been so much snowfall overnight.” “Just you and me then?” she asked. “Yes. You and me and the snow.” “Right. Have you got a shovel?” Chapter 3 (#u7e03b646-da9f-5296-b152-199789aa6292) An hour later she gave up. Each time she shovelled a path clear enough to walk along, more caved in from the sides, covering it in new piles of snow. She was freezing. And wet. And tired. And wondering if Doug had bothered sending out a search party by now. Or whether the guests had eaten the wedding cake and guzzled the bubbly and danced to the mock Motown act without her. When she first ran out on the wedding party, she’d planned to call him when she got back to the flat. Let him and her friends know she was safe. Family, luckily she supposed, wasn’t an issue. She’d hoped to grab the few clothes and belongings she needed and then do a dramatic disappearing act, exit stage left from her old life, and into her vaguely formed new one. Huh, she thought, that had worked out well. Not. She looked around at the endless, eye-searingly white snow. A woman could go blind out here. And not for any fun reasons. All things considered, it was depressing. She couldn’t even run away properly. She trudged back into the cottage, kicking off green wellies that were six shoe sizes too big and came up over her knee caps. She could practically feel her nose glowing, and her hair was damp from snow and wasted manual labour. Face it, Leah, she thought – you’re just a useless urban gnome trapped in the wilds of the North Pole. Apparently determined to lose your fingers to frostbite one way or another. Still, she told herself, pausing to look at Rob sprawled over the sofa in front of the fire. It could have been worse. At least she was a useless urban gnome trapped in the North Pole with God. What her situation lacked in snow ploughs it did make up for in eye candy. Better to focus on the positives than wallow in self-pity, after all. He was reading a book, one arm propping his head up, body stretched so long the T-shirt had crept up over his belly. A few inches of taut, olive-toned skin peeked out. Leah felt her cold nose twitch, like Sabrina the witch, and wondered if she could cast some kind of X-ray-vision spell so she could see the rest of it. Rob glanced up, gave her a nod of acknowledgement, barely managing to hide the smirk playing around his lips. The bastard. He’d given her the shovel. Told her to knock herself out; that if she managed to dig her way back to civilisation it’d be the greatest escape since Colditz. Obviously, she’d failed. Maybe she could try faking her papers and digging a tunnel next. She’d probably need to grow a moustache and start wearing an RAF jacket first though. “Drink?” Rob asked, gesturing to the end of the sofa, where a tumbler of warm whiskey was waiting on a side table. It was practically glowing with deliciousness, and he’d timed it perfectly – just warm enough, as though he’d known exactly when she’d throw in the towel. He was one of those people, she realised – the ones who were good at sport and clever and witty and always in charge of the room. Not to mention sexually irresistible to any creature with a pulse. Leah had no doubt that if he’d tried to dig a bloody path, it would be so good it would win the Scottish Path of the Year award. Rob remained silent, watching as she chewed on her full lower lip, knowing she was weighing up the pleasures of the drink vs telling him to go screw himself. Her hair was scooped into a messy pony tail with an elastic band she’d found in the kitchen. She was wearing his coat, the sleeves rolled over so many times her arms were as big as Popeye’s. Peaches and cream skin gone all rosy from the cold, jacket hanging down over her knees, eyes glimmering with chill-sprung tears. Frosty and snowy and perfect; if he could find a way to shrink her, he could hang her from the vast pine tree in the corner of the room as a bauble. “Okay,” she said, hanging up the coat and walking over to the fire. “Move up then. I don’t want to have to sit on you.” That, she admitted to herself as he shuffled his legs over slightly, was a big fat lie. She was trying to ignore how big he was, but it was impossible. He was so long, filling the sofa, filling the room. Filling her vision. His hair was messy. The paperback was open, splayed on his broad chest. The truth was she’d very much like to sit on him. Or lie on him. Or curl up in his arms and go to sleep…Those would be mighty fine arms for a woman to curl up in. The fire crackling in the background; the enormous Christmas tree was filling the room with the scent of pine, and there he was. Lying like Adonis on the sofa, asking for trouble. How would he react if she curled up around him like a snoozy kitten? She raised her glass, and said: “Happy Christmas!”, before sipping the whisky. “Mmmm. This is good,” she said. “Glenfiddich?” “Yeah,” he replied, surprised. “How’d you know?” “I – we – me and Doug. You know, hide-the-sausage Doug. We have a bistro, in London. One of our specialities is fine liquor, as you Yanks might call it. And this is a favourite of mine.” It was also, she knew, bloody expensive. If he was an artist, he was doing well. Definitely not the starving type. Or maybe he’d married money. As soon as the thought pinged into her brain, it came out of her mouth. “Where’s your wife? Why aren’t you together for Christmas?” she asked, feeling bolder as the warmth of the whiskey spread in her throat like liquid heat. There were gifts under the tree, and glittery Christmas cards propped up on the bookshelves, which might be from a wife. But there were no photos. No lists of DIY jobs for him to do. No actual woman either – unless he’d killed her, buried her in the woodshed. Nothing but that wide gold band glinting on his finger. The Dutch courage had helped Leah to ask, and it was a valid question. She’d been feeling some fairly intense heat since she’d fallen into his arms last night, and not all of it came from the fire. She wasn’t arrogant, but she knew he’d been feeling it too. He could be as terse as he liked, but she had eyes. She could see what had been going on in those Levis. So far neither of them had acted on it, and it would be better by far if they never did. He was married, and she was heartbroken. Allegedly. She hoped that talking about the absent missus might defuse the situation, at least for her. This was another woman’s man, after all, and she shouldn’t be pondering the fineness of his arms, or any other part of him. “I’m not married,” he said quickly, his tone unexpectedly sharp. The mood had been mellow; relaxed. Christmassy, with the fire and the tree and the snow and the whiskey. Now, it was tense. Leah turned her face to his, saw the brooding darkness of his eyes. The gleam of the wedding ring on one long finger. And knew this was not an issue to press. He might as well have pulled out a ‘no entry’ road sign and stuck it on his frown-creased forehead. She saw the line of his jaw go rigid with anxiety, his body language screaming ‘none of your business’. A mystery. And not hers to solve. “Okay,” she said, after a beat. She kept her gaze on the blaze of his eyes, smiled, aimed for a light-hearted tone that might bring him back down from red alert. “Well, me neither, as you know. Lucky us. And you were right, of course. I failed abysmally in my attempts to dig us out. Is it all right if I stay? Is there maybe room in a stable somewhere? I know I arrived in an Audi, not on a donkey, but I don’t mind roughing it if you need your space.” “You can stay,” he answered, quietly. He was so glad she hadn’t asked any more about Meredith. He came here to escape talking about Meredith. His family seemed to think talking about her was the way to ‘cure’ him; and his sister-in-law Melissa never failed to try and reach out at this time of year, get him to open up. Idiots. Lovable, but idiots all the same. He’d resorted to flying to the other side of the world to avoid them all. The last thing he needed was Leah quizzing him as well. He could feel the attraction between them fizzing so loud he could almost hear it pop, like soda bubbles. That, he could cope with. He might end up with blue balls, but he could cope with it. Deep and meaningful conversations about his past, though? No way. He shook it off. She’d lightened the tone, and he knew it was for his benefit, that she’d picked up on his signals. She’d mocked herself, pulled such a disgusted face at her path-digging failure that he’d had to smile. She’d backed off. In that one exchange she showed she was more in tune with his feelings than the entire Cavelli clan back home in the Windy City. She already understood and respected the boundaries that they relentlessly tried to demolish every year. They could do this: avoid the deep and meaningful. Hopefully avoid sex. Avoid everything with screw-up potential until he could safely get her out of there. “You can stay, Leah,” he repeated, “but don’t get any ideas. I sleep with a rape alarm by my bed, and I’m trained in seven different types of martial art.” She giggled and drained her whiskey. He was betting she’d be ready for a top up, and he knew he was. All of this suppressed lust was thirsty work. “Damn,” she said. “And here was me planning to get you drunk and seduce you. The temperature’s dropping you know – we might be forced to strip off and share body heat to survive!” She was joking. He knew she was joking. But there was something bubbling between them, something so powerful the rest of the room seemed to fade into the background. The radio was on in the kitchen, and choirboys were singing about little drummer boys. The reception was poor, and the sound was crackling. The logs in the fire were crackling. And they were crackling, with raw sexual energy. Leah looked at him, noticing the quizzical upward twist of his lips, the sideways quirk his mouth took when he was amused or intrigued. It was strange, she thought, how after only a few hours in his company she could already spot his familiar expressions. His eyes, though, they looked completely new. There was a glimmer of golden flecks she’d never noticed before. Like the flames of the fire were somehow leaping around in the chocolate brown of his pupils. “Only kidding,” she added, suddenly feeling a flush of heat rush through her – heat that had nothing to do with the blaze in the fireplace, or the excellent whiskey, and everything to do with the big man lying next to her. “Do you always talk this much?” he asked simply, locking his hands behind his head and gazing up at her. His eyes skimmed her chest on the way to her face, and her nipples tightened in response. She felt her pulse rate soar and knew she was blushing. Again. “Only when I’m…” Nervous, she thought. Terrified. Aroused. “…awake,” she said. “Do you remember when you came to, last night? After you fainted so delicately into my arms, smashing whiskey and glass all over the place?” “Sorry! But, no. Nothing at all. Just getting here, and being so relieved when you opened the door, then waking up this morning. Why? What did I miss?” “You sat up, praised the Lord, and kissed me.” “Oh! Sorry again! That was very forward of me!” she said, torn between embarrassment and laughter. In the end, laughter won out – surely it wasn’t such a big deal? She’d been barely conscious at the time. The ultimate let-out clause. Shame she hadn’t had a quick grope of his arse while she was at it, in fact. “Well, how was it for you, then, this kiss? Obviously not that good for me, given that I don’t even remember it.” She gave him a look she knew was way too flirtatious. She was still thinking about his bum, and wishing she could remember the way those luscious lips had felt on hers. Where was the harm in a bit of casual flirtation, anyway? After all, as they’d now established, neither of them was married – despite him wearing a ring and her turning up in a wedding dress. Appearances could be deceptive. He didn’t reply, and she wondered if she’d blown it – he was a moody so-and-so, flirty one minute, closed off the next. Or maybe he was just so arrogant he couldn’t stand even a joking critique of his snogging skills. He reached up and grabbed her shoulders, suddenly tugging her down onto his chest. She landed with a thud, and lay there for a second, stunned in several different ways. Oh. Yes. It was just as hard as it looked; pure muscle. And he smelled really, really good. Of wood and spice and something that took a direct route from her nostrils to somewhere much lower. Never had the simple act of breathing been such a turn-on. She lay still, inhaling the fresh cotton of his T-shirt, the hint of something gorgeous from the shower, and the underlying scent of him…sexy, virile, male. She pushed herself up, her face inches from his, taking tiny breaths as she lost her gaze in the pool of those gold-flecked eyes. Deep enough to drown a woman. Even looking at him was divine, and the feel of his hard body crushed under hers was even better. Rob tangled one hand into her hair, not even knowing himself what he was going to do next. There was something about this woman that confused him, intoxicated him. Took away his ability to think clearly. In the end, without thinking at all, he pulled her mouth down to meet his. He kissed her softly at first, giving her the chance to pull away – part of him even hoping she would. When it became clear from the way her body moulded to him like running water that she was going nowhere, the contact deepened. Mouths parted, his tongue touched hers, his teeth sweetly nipped her lower lip. One hand held her head firmly to his while the other roamed expertly over the contours of her body – her neck, shoulders, down to the small of her back, caressing and stroking with fingers that clearly knew their way around a woman. Leah was thinking no more clearly than him. Her body was filling with warmth; a thousand nerve endings tingling as his hands and lips dominated her senses. She could feel his arousal pressing into her, and she slid shamelessly around on top of him, wriggling her body into position until the hard denim-clad bulge hit just the right point to make her gasp. She slipped a hand under his T-shirt, tracing the smooth lines of his pectorals, the silky trail of hair, the peak of his nipples. Jesus. What a body. She wanted to pull that jersey away, to look at him and lick him and kiss him all over. As fast as it started, it ended. Suddenly, he pulled her face away, using the tangle of her hair to hold her back, ignoring her small pleas and moves to return to his kiss. He looked up at her confused expression with a big, dazzling grin, eyes wicked and teeth gleaming white. God, she was magnificent, he thought as he gazed at her. Lips swollen from kissing him back so hard. Eyes wild with desire. Her body bucking and rubbing like she was riding a rodeo horse; her fingers already instinctively seeking out the parts of his body that were the most sensitive. Those lush breasts straining to escape. He was so turned on his whole being was thrumming. And still he held her back. He had a point to make, and Rob Cavelli was very good at making his point. “As the last kiss disappointed you so much, d’you think you’ll remember that one?” he said, smiling as her lust-clouded eyes started to clear. The amber settled from tigress to kitten, and she sighed as she realised she’d been played. “Yes. ’Til I’m 100 and senile,” she said breathlessly. “Point taken. But why did you stop? You seemed to be enjoying it as well.” “Of course I was. But you might regret it later,” he said, his voice gravel. “Your judgement doesn’t exactly seem to be working right now. And because this is how babies are made, and I’m sure neither of wants that for Christmas. And because I’m hungry. For food.” Even as he said it, he knew he was lying. Making excuses. He was nothing but a coward, pretending to protect her, when in reality it was himself he was worried about. Sex with this woman would blow his mind, he already knew it would. And that would be very unsafe sex…in all kinds of ways. He was buying time. Trying to get his body to cool down so his mind could take control. He hadn’t lived like a monk since Meredith, but no woman had ever come close to making him feel like this. It was crazy, and he’d already been too crazy. He lived there for a long time after he lost Meredith, and he never wanted to return. He kept his face closed, guarded, making his expression as light as his tone. Leah smiled at him, and knew he was stalling. Decided, he knew, to go along with it. Good girl. “Food.” she murmured, sitting up so she was straddling him. She tidied her hair back into its pony tail and gazed ahead, deep in thought. From this angle he could see the firm buds of her nipples thrusting proudly forwards, her body still bearing the remnants of her arousal. Even the thought of it made him twitch in the pants department, and he firmed up against her again, so hard there was no hiding it. She wriggled against it, very deliberately, as she pretended to ponder dinner plans. “Well, if you’re sure it’s food you’re after, I’m your girl. You happen to be in the company of one of the finest chefs in London – or at least on one street in London. I’ll go and see what’s in the kitchen…” she said, and nimbly climbed off him. He felt cold as soon as she’d gone, already missing the soft press of her body. She looked down, grinning at the sight of his distressed groin. “You just lie there and think about what you’re missing.” she said, and swayed out of the room, rounded butt sashaying in those impossibly snug leggings. Oh God, he thought. I may never walk again. *** “This is good,” he said, dipping freshly baked bread into home-made French onion soup. “Really good. How did you manage it?” In just a few hours Leah had filled the cottage with the scents of a home; raiding cupboards, plugging in appliances, and even figuring out how to use the Aga range he’d been using as a butt-warmer for several years now. It had been a great butt-warmer, but he’d never used it to cook. Leah grinned at him. Few things pleased her more than people enjoying her food, and this particular man enjoying it gave her a bad case of the warm and fuzzies. Even watching him eat was sensual, she thought, the way his face reacted to the flavours, the pure pleasure of the taste. “It was easy. So easy even you could do it. There are all sorts of great things in your kitchen. Don’t you ever use it?” “Not really,” Rob admitted. “I only come here for these two weeks. Morag, who lives here the rest of the time, always leaves stuff for me – but I have to be honest, I tend to exist on tuna pasta and grilled cheese sandwiches for the whole fortnight.” “Grilled cheese! That’s so cute!” she said, stifling a laugh as he stared at her. “You mean cheese on toast, Rob. Come on, get it right. You may be an artist, but that’s no excuse for not learning the native tongue.” “Artist?” he said, blankly. That was quite a gear shift, and he had no idea what she was talking about. “Who said I was an artist?” he asked, confused, wine glass halfway to his lips. Did he have paint on his sweater, he wondered? Smell of turps? Nothing could be farther from the truth – he was the kind of kid who was still drawing stick figures at 12. “Erm, nobody did, now you mention it,” she said, “that was just my wild brain conjuring things up, I suppose – and once I’d thought it, it became true in my own mind, you know?” She’d tied her hair back with a piece of tinsel she’d lifted from the pine tree, and it was draping metallic red glitter over her shoulders, merging with the blonde of her messy plait. Very festive, he thought. Morag decorated the tree for him every year, even though he’d told her he didn’t care. It was nice that someone was finally appreciating her efforts. “I think,” she continued, narrowing her amber eyes as she tried to reconstruct her thought processes, “it was because I couldn’t imagine why else somebody would be holed up here on their own over Christmas, unless they were, I don’t know, seeking inspiration or communing with the spirit world. Maybe an artist, or priest on some kind of retreat. Clearly not in your case – at least I hope not, bearing in mind our adventure on the sofa earlier…so I decided artist. I was wrong, obviously. So what do you do – and why are you here? You don’t have the excuse of it being an accident like I do.” “I’m a white slaver,” he answered, his teeth shining savagely in the flickering light cast by the fire. For a second she could believe that, with his olive skin and dark eyes. And he’d look amazing in a pirate costume. “I wait here for passing virgins,” he said, “then I sell them on for unimaginable profit.” “Oh dear. Sorry to let you down on the virgin front. You must have thought your luck was in when a woman in a white dress turned up on your doorstep?” she replied, shaking off the image of Rob and his swinging cutlass. Leah had been nipping at the wine all the time she cooked, and accidentally seemed to have polished off most of a bottle of red on her own. Oops, she thought. This was turning out to be an unexpectedly boozy Christmas Day after all. “Nah, it happens all the time. I’m forever fighting women off,” he said. “Gets quite exhausting after a while.” That, thought Leah, she could definitely believe. This was not a man who would ever go short of offers. From man, woman or beast. He was impossibly good-looking. Italian family, she’d managed to learn. Lived in Chicago. White slaver. That was the sum total of her knowledge about him. Assuming you didn’t include the way his lips tasted or having a fair estimate of his penis size, that is. “No. Really. Go on. Tell me something about yourself. I mean, I’ve already poured my heart out to you, and you’ve seen me starkers. It’s only fair.” He had seen her ‘starkers’, he acknowledged. At least when he hadn’t been squinting to try and avoid it. And now, thanks to that casual comment, he was imagining her starkers again, wearing just the tinsel in her hair. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, shaking away the image, “but I’m not an artist. Or even a white slaver. I’m just a businessman. Family firm. Corporate suits. Meetings all day. Boring to the max.” “I bet it’s not boring at all. I can’t imagine you doing something boring,” she said. “I bet you buy and sell something really interesting, like, reindeers. Right?” “You guessed it,” he said, smiling. “I’m a reindeer wholesaler. And by this time of year, I’ve had enough, so I run away to the wilds of Scotland to escape it all. And do a bit of stock-taking while I’m here.” Something about the way he said it rang true to Leah. Not the reindeer bit, obviously, she thought, but the escape. The running away. Even the stock-taking. She’d known this man for less than 48 hours and she already realised he was strong; dependable; in charge. Of himself and probably of others. At certain moments already, of her and her newly emerging nymphomaniac. But despite all of that, he also needed to escape. To hide. What could be bad enough to make a man like this feel the need to hide? Would she ever find out? Too serious, she thought, reaching for yet more wine. Way too serious, and none of her business. They’d been thrown together by a set of freaky circumstances and he’d been kind enough to let her stay, and even to share some saliva with her. She should repay him by keeping her nose – and all of her other body parts – out of his business. “Well, I understand that,” she replied. “I’m a fugitive myself. I ran away into the wilds of Scotland too, away from my own wedding, shortly after seeing Doug disappear up Becky’s frock. Okay, I was aiming for London and I ended up—” “Here, with me. Which is no sane person’s idea of an escape,” he said, his tone suddenly quiet and serious, his face cast down in the shimmering firelight. There was a sadness in this man, making guest appearances when Leah least expected it. She felt her own pain well up in response; scrunched up her eyes so she wouldn’t cry. What a pair of losers. It was Christmas, she told herself. And nobody should be allowed to be sad at Christmas — no matter how good the reasons. It is, after all, the season to be jolly. “Yep. I ended up here, with you, Mr Cavelli. Where I’ve had to endure sexual harassment, and been forced into becoming your chief cook and bottle washer. Talking of which, are you ready for your next course, sir?” “Yes. Into the kitchen, woman,” he said, noticing the way she’d picked up on his mood, and tried to deflect it. Moving his mental course…what? His usual default setting of morose solitude? Around this time of year it seemed to be the only mood he was capable of. God, he was becoming a pain in the ass, he decided. He was even sick of himself. Yet with Leah around, he felt different. The anxiety felt diffused by the easy positivity and flirty charm that seemed to be her default setting. He knew she must be in pain; knew she must be grieving for her lost future, no matter how much she mocked herself and her circumstances. Nobody could walk away from that kind of experience unharmed. And this Doug guy must be a total idiot. Who could have a woman like Leah waiting for him and still want more? Not love…but chemistry. Burning, sparkling, blazing chemistry that threatened to set them both on fire. She was way too vulnerable for that right now, even if she didn’t think she was. And as for him - he always would be too vulnerable. After Meredith, there was nothing left to give. His body, yes. But more? The sort of more a woman like Leah deserved? No. That part of him just didn’t exist any more. And that’s what his Mom and his brother could never get. He wasn’t choosing to be alone, any more than he’d chosen to have dark hair, or an aptitude for numbers. It was part of who he was now. Who he was destined to be. There was nothing anyone could do about that – not his mother, not his brother. Not himself. Not even Leah. Chapter 4 (#u7e03b646-da9f-5296-b152-199789aa6292) His dark thoughts were scattered as Leah bustled back in from the kitchen, holding a hot plate with the edge of a cloth. The red tinsel had glued itself to the side of her cheek, skin flushed with the heat of the kitchen. “It’s only a steak,” she said, sounding nervous and happy and excited all at the same time. “I found it in the freezer. Just a little sauce to go with it, peppercorns; some nutmeg, cream and—” “Brandy,” he added as he took his first bite. “Because we’ve not had enough booze so far today, right? Leah, it’s delicious.” And it was. Simple, luscious and full of flavour. He knew this wasn’t a well-stocked gourmet kitchen, despite her claims. Leah had taken the absolute basics and conjured up something wonderful. The woman had talent. And passion – he could tell that from the way she hovered, waiting for his reaction. This was something she loved doing. He wondered, even though it was none of his business, what she’d do with all that passion now, if she couldn’t go back to the bistro she’d mentioned. He looked up and smiled. Leah felt her heart do a little flip for no good reason. She was always cheered when people enjoyed her cooking, and when the satisfied customer came with the face of a Renaissance god, the body of an athlete and the tongue of a sinner. Well, she thought, that was what you called a good tip. She’d quite like to heat him up with some brandy and cream and serve him as pudding. She sat down to eat, realising how much she’d miss that first-bite reaction. How much she’d miss the bistro. Scouring the farmers’ markets for the freshest produce. Creating new dishes; giving them silly names and chalking them up on the specials board. She’s miss the hustle and bustle of restaurant life. The staff she worked with; their regulars, the blokes who ran the bar over the road, the homeless guys she saved leftovers for. She’d miss all of it, so much. It had been her reality for years – nice, fun, safe – and now it was all gone. Now, though, she reminded herself, was not a time for moping. Reality sucked, and therefore it could wait. If she crashed now, he’d go with her – and they’d spend the rest of Christmas Day sobbing into their wine glasses. Rob’s plate was soon clear. He didn’t lick it, but she could tell he wanted to. The ultimate compliment. It lifted her spirits straight away – if she achieved nothing else this Christmas, she’d fed a delicious meal to a delicious man. Even if he wasn’t hers for keeps. “Just wait ’til you taste dessert,” she said, raising her eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. Before he could respond, she disappeared off into the kitchen again, carrying off their used plates. She gave her bottom an extra wiggle as she went. Or the red wine did, at least. Rob smiled as she wiggled her ass at him. He sat still, leaning his elbows on the table. His belly was full of fine food, glass full of fine wine, his mind full of a fine woman…and he needed to ease up on all three. He was enjoying himself way too much. Way more than he deserved. He could hear Leah singing in the kitchen, murdering one of the carols being broadcast on the radio. Oh Come All Ye Faithful. He shook his head in amazement at her resilience. After seeing their fianc? doing the dirty with someone else, most girls would be snivelling in a corner, desperate to win him back or stab him in the eye with a stiletto heel. Instead, here she was. No sign of a nervous breakdown, or at the very least a firm grip on when she was going to allow it to happen. Distracting herself with cooking and singing and making him laugh. Not to mention kissing and wriggling and touching. God. He was getting hard again, even thinking about that action-packed little body of hers. As he once again plundered his brain cells for anti-aphrodisiac thoughts, all the lights went out, and the cottage was plunged into total darkness. Shit, he thought, blinking against the night until his eyes adjusted. The generator must have failed. Again. Happened at least once every year. One of the many joys of rural isolation. He heard a shriek from the kitchen and the sound of a plate falling to the floor, smashing on the cold stone flags. Rob scraped back his chair, felt his familiar way to the drawers and pulled them open. Once he’d managed to find the candles in their usual place, he dashed through to the kitchen. “Sorry!” Leah said, voice high and nervy. “I just got a shock when it all went dark! Hope it wasn’t priceless porcelain or anything.” She was squatting down in the darkness, trying to pick up the broken shards of pottery; hands shaking, feet bare. “Shush, it’s fine,” said Rob, offering a hand to pull her back up. “Leave that until we have light, I don’t want you to cut yourself.” She ignored his outstretched hand, and carried on scrabbling for the broken pieces, skimming her hands across the stone to find them. “ Leah. Listen to me, for Christ’s sake. Stand up in case you get hurt, there’s pieces of plate all over the damn floor and you have nothing on your feet.” “No, no, it’s okay. I can’t leave a mess like this,” she said, her pale skin luminous in the dark, toes missing the sharpened slivers of porcelain by inches as she scooted around the floor. With an exasperated sigh, Rob leaned down, scooped her up into his arms, and deposited her with a small thud on top of the work surface. “Oh!” she said, perched on the edge of the counter on her bottom, feet waving from side to side because her legs weren’t long enough to reach the floor. “You picked me up! And I’m huge!” “Yep. Just like a baby elephant, but not as cute. Now sit still there while I look for the matches. They’re behind you.” Rob leaned past her, his body crushing against hers, as he stretched his arms up to reach a shelf above Leah’s head. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his chest, smell the sweet fragrance of her shampoo, and knew that if he looked down into those amber eyes – even for a split second – he’d be lost. All resolve would be gone. And as Leah seemed decidedly tipsy, hers had probably already run for the hills. “Erm, Rob,” she said, the ever-present sound of laughter in her voice, “is that a candle you’re holding or are you just pleased to see me?” He could feel her body shaking against his as she giggled; could see the downright playful expression on her face even without electric lighting. She was asking for trouble and, frankly, he was desperate to give it to her. He slammed the candle down on the counter. Vision could wait, he decided. There were more pressing senses to be dealt with. She squeaked slightly as he shoved his way between her dangling legs, took her face in both his hands and held it firmly inches from his. Now he had her – what was he going to do with her? Leah was wondering exactly the same, and it felt delicious. Even in the darkness she could see the blazing intensity of those gold-brown eyes; the twist of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils. Oops. Maybe that had been one flirt too far, she thought, already swamped by the warmth of his breath on her face; the knowledge that all she had to do was lean in to those luscious lips for a kiss. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she might have had a bit too much to drink. She knew she was in no emotional state to be jumping into bed with someone new. She knew it was Christmas. She leaned. The heat was immediate as their lips met. Rob’s fingers caressed her cheekbones and jaw as he kissed her, then plunged into her hair, pulling it back from her face, holding her steady as the kiss intensified. The feel of his hard-planed body thrusting up against hers was exquisite; he wanted her as much as she wanted him, she could feel it in the urgency of his kiss, the push of his body. She instinctively hooked her legs around his waist and tugged him in tighter, rubbing herself up against him. He made a low growling sound and responded in kind. We’re so, so close, she thought, we’d be having sex, if it wasn’t for those pesky layers of clothing. He used the hands tangled in her hair and pulled her head to one side, leaning in to nuzzle the soft skin of her neck. The touch was barely there; a trace of tiny kisses and nibbles under her ears, across her throat, spreading to her shoulders, finding the tiny dips and hollows in her flesh that drove her wild. She’d expected brutal and hard: instead he gave her slow and sensual, and every inch of her body was begging for his mouth. “Rob, please…” ““For once, be quiet,” he muttered. “I’m busy.” He pulled back, lifting his face to hers, their eyes meeting in the glow of the moonlight flooding in through the window. Never once breaking eye contact, Rob slid his hands beneath her T-shirt, and a shudder ripped through her as he placed them on the bare flesh of her waist. His fingers softly skimmed upwards, inch by slow, torturous inch; all the time the feel of his arousal pressing into her through the flimsy fabric of her leggings. She scooted her bottom forward even more until she was almost resting on him, getting as close as she could and still wanting more. His breathing was low and jagged as his hands moved upwards. And Leah, she was barely breathing at all, lost in the power of his eyes, the sensation of long fingers stroking their way up her body, over her stomach, her ribs, edging ever nearer to the place she needed them to be. Her nipples had tightened into hard, explosive buds of excitement, and her breasts had taken on a life of their own, pushing themselves forward to meet his searching touch. Rob stroked the underside, the curve that jutted upwards; the delicate flesh of her areola puckering under his touch. He paused, felt the weight of her breasts in his hands, then captured one desperate nipple between finger and thumb, rolling and rubbing, sending an edge of delicious pain shooting through her body. Leah tangled her fingers into the midnight of his hair, pulled his lips to hers, drinking in the passion and sensuality of his mouth. “I need this,” she muttered. “Please. Don’t think about it. Just do it.” He nodded. Tugged the T-shirt over her head. And thought he might come there and then when he saw those magnificent bosoms in all their glory; full and round and topped with perfect, hard nipples. He leaned forward, lifted one breast, and took the nipple into his mouth, tracing its contours with his tongue before sucking, gently at first, then harder, knowing from her quivering body, the feel of her fingers in his hair, that she was loving it. He moved to the other, all the while her quiet moaning begging him not to stop. As if. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He lifted her slightly, pulled the leggings down, moved his hand to her parted thighs. God, the heat was amazing. She was on fire. He glanced at her face: eyes glazed, mouth open, tiny whispers urging him on. He slid one long finger inside her, was instantly engulfed with moist heat as she started to thrust. He used his thumb to circle the swollen bud of her clitoris, all the time probing her with a steady rhythm her body was matching. She clung on to him, hands gripping and ungripping the fabric of his T-shirt, hair wild around her face as the pleasure mounted. She realised that she was losing all grip on reality; everything was now dominated by the feel of his fingers on her and in her, on the exquisite edge of sensation that was building up in waves, bigger and nearer and closer and…Oh! Everything exploded. Everything. For what felt like minutes, the orgasm ripped through her body with such ferocity she thought she might black out. Her face collapsed forward, buried in his chest, as he stroked her hair and kissed her and murmured her name. Eventually she took a deep breath, looked up at him. At this virtual stranger; at this man who’d just shown her everything she thought she knew about sex was wrong. That everything she’d believed to be good in the past was just a pale imitation of what it could be. This was what sex could be, should be, like. It was a revelation. Rob’s pupils were enormous, and she could still feel his huge erection through his jeans. He’d waited. Held off. Accepted her need, and given her what she wanted. And it must, she thought, sliding from the counter and on to her wobbly legs, be killing him. She dropped down to her knees, unbuckled his belt and released him. Jesus. What a monster. Hard and happy and ready to go. “You don’t have to—” he started. “Shush. I want to. I really want to. And I think you,” she said, leaning in to run her tongue all the way along his shaft, “want me to as well.” She took him into her mouth, licking and lapping and exploring, finding ways to pleasure him despite his size, her tongue flickering everywhere, her hands stroking and rubbing and building up in a rhythm that was clearly right for him. She reached round, gripped that improbably perfect backside of his, and urged him on even further; lifted her breasts so their soft flesh cushioned him; sucked him until he could take no more. He gasped and shuddered and finally came. “Jesus, Leah!” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Were you trained in a bloody bordello?” “Same could be said for you,” she replied, wrapping her arms around his waist and snuggling into his chest. “Except, you know, a bordello for boys. Happy Christmas, Rob.” He laughed; he knew they shouldn’t have done it, but frankly he didn’t care. Sometimes the body wants what the body wants. And the brain can go to hell. “Happy Christmas, Leah.” She held on to him like she was drowning. “Sorry,” she said, face still crushed against his chest, “but my legs are wobbly. I think I might need a lie down.” “Um. Not a problem,” he said, feeling himself hardening again already. Waiting for sanity to return and realising he might be waiting a while; having Leah’s bare breasts rubbing up against wasn’t exactly a passion-killer. He held her hand and led her towards the bedroom in the darkness. It was only when she sat down with a small ‘ouch’ that he realised she’d been limping all along. “What is it?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t done something to unintentionally hurt her. Surely he hadn’t…Not yet, at least. “Plate. In foot. Sorry. Got distracted earlier. Concentrating on other body parts. Probably could’ve amputated one of my toes and I wouldn’t have noticed.” “Idiot,” he said affectionately, getting up to fetch the long-forgotten candle, along with a small bowl of warm water and a cloth. It gave him a minute to cool down. In all sorts of ways. He kneeled down before her, lifting her foot in the candlelight to examine it, gently wiping and stroking until the tiny sliver that was wedged in her flesh came free. As he washed the small wound, face intense in concentration, Leah felt something shift in her heart. His face was so focused; his touch so soft and tender as he worked, so careful not to hurt her. Minutes earlier he’d been an animal – all heat and need and hard sex. Now he was kind. Kind. Yep. That was the word – and that was what was her undoing. Kindness. She didn’t realise how starved of it she’d been until now, she thought, as tears sprung to her eyes. Her and Doug…they’d rubbed along okay. He’d not been cruel, not until their wedding day at least. But they’d not been close either, not cherished each other enough. Rob looked up. He saw her crying. Saw big, round tears spilling from the corners of her amber eyes, trailing over the peach of her skin and pooling in her neck. He felt a constriction somewhere tender in his chest; in a place he thought he’d shuttered up forever. “What is it?” he asked. “Am I hurting you?” “No; no you’re not. It’s just…It’s been a weird couple of days. The wedding. The running away from the wedding. And now this. It’s all been quite a lot to take in. ” “Of course it has,” he said, keeping his face neutral. If she started sobbing about how much she still loved her ex right now, he wasn’t sure his ego could take it. Most women, after kitchen lust with Rob Cavelli, only had eyes for him. Still. There was always a first time. “It’s not him,” she said, as if reading his mind, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Not Doug. It’s everything. The fact I lived with him. That I agreed to marry him, when all the time, I never even really loved him, I know now! I just needed the security, I think. My parents died when I was 18, and I was on my own until I met him. It wasn’t Doug I fell for – it was the idea of Doug, and everything he could offer me. A home, a family, our business, all binding me to another human being. Being part of something, not being alone any more. It wasn’t fair to either of us. And now, after what happened, I wonder if he knew that too, deep down. I’m glad I found out before it was too late. It was an awful way to get a wake-up call, but maybe I needed one. It was the best thing for both of us. I need a fresh start. I need a new life. I need—” “Leah,” he said, sitting next to her and holding her wet hand in his. “Stop. I have to tell you, before you go on, that I’m not the man to give you what you need. Despite what just happened. Please don’t ask it of me. I’m not capable. I’m broken. Parts of me don’t work any more, and I don’t think anyone can fix them. I like you, Leah. And, well, wow to the sex part. But more than that? I don’t have it in me to give, and I don’t want to lie to you. Not now, when you’re hurting so bad; not ever. You deserve better than Doug. And you damn well deserve better than me.” Leah squeezed his hand, gazed up at him from tear-wet lashes. Oh, she thought, he was so completely beautiful. As beautiful as a man could ever be. She lifted her hand, traced the hard outline of his jaw, and smiled. He might not be God, but he was definitely a gift from Him. A Christmas gift to give her hope, and friendship, and possibly multiple orgasms. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that, she knew she had to face her new reality. But right here, this was all she needed: the perfect distraction, and a salve for her pain. It wouldn’t last, but then again, what did? Life, she had to accept, was a fragile beast: you could do your best to control it, but it was a wild thing, with a will of its own. There was no security, no certainty. People died. People betrayed you. So for now at least, she’d live in the moment. “You don’t know what I was going to say, Rob. And don’t worry, one quick fumble in the kitchen doesn’t mean I’ve fallen for you. But thank you, for your kindness, and your honesty. I don’t expect anything of you, Rob. We don’t even really know each other, and I certainly don’t think you’re my knight in shining armour. But we landed here, together, at this time, and well…call me an old hippy, but I think it was fate. That right here, right now, we can help each other. I don’t need a boyfriend. Or a husband. Or a family – I need to learn to be me, without anybody else. Does that make sense?” Rob nodded, gesturing for her to go on. He wanted to hear what she said – with Leah, he’d already learned to expect the unexpected. “And as for parts of you not working,” she said, “ well, other parts of you definitely do work, so perhaps…” her hand trailed down to the lean muscle of his thigh, fingers stroking upwards, “we should concentrate on those. Let’s have this one Christmas together. No expectations. No promises. We don’t have a past, we don’t have a future. We have the present. Just a lot of laughter, and some truly phenomenal sex. What do you say?” “I say that sounds like the best Christmas I’ve had in years,” he replied. Chapter 5 (#u7e03b646-da9f-5296-b152-199789aa6292) “Now that,” Leah said as she woke up, her tousled blonde head poking its way out from the duvet, “is a mighty fine view.” Rob was standing at the window, staring out into the fields. Completely naked. Those broad shoulders, bulked biceps; the smooth skin of his back rippling with lean muscle as he turned to smile at her. Tapered waist; the powerful length of his thighs. And right in the middle, the cherry on top of the pie, that utterly breath-taking backside. What a body. The kind she’d never seen anywhere but a movie screen before now. She’d got to know every inch of it over the last three days. In great and glorious detail. The bag she had with her was intended for hand luggage, and contained a bumper pack of condoms tucked away for the honeymoon that never was. Another little Christmas miracle, and one that allowed them both to explore each other in ways that had left them tingling and exhausted. Three days of unparalleled pleasure, cocooned in their cottage in the snow. “There’s been a thaw,” he said, turning to walk back over to the bed. Lord, he was magnificent. Every abdominal an awesome outline; every movement perfectly graceful; every flash of those dark brown eyes enough to make her wet. In a good way. “You might,” he said, climbing into bed next to her, “be able to leave soon. And I need to get back to work.” “Oh, well,” said Leah, rolling next to him and reaching across to trace the hard contours of his muscled chest. Hard and muscled but covered in the most gorgeous velvety skin she’d ever touched. It hardly seemed fair it should belong to a man. “That’s good news.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/debbie-johnson/cold-feet-at-christmas/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.