Kathleen Creighton - Silhouette Christmas Stories

She was warm satin flesh. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. He was on fire. His gaze rested on her soft lush red mouth for one second only. Then his lips covered hers. He circled her with his arms. She tried to cry out, but his hot, ravaging mouth stifled all utterance. She was trembling with fear, and with some other emotion that more than matched the power of his own blind passion.

She was warm and sweet like heated honey. An angel who was erotic as no wanton could ever be. Shock waves of desire surged through every aching nerve in his body. He wanted her, as he had never wanted another. This funny, seemingly innocent woman-child who was poor, who was a gypsy girl.

Her slim body was crushed beneath the power of his weight, and the hands that had been pushing against his chest stopped pushing. He felt them curl weakly around his neck, and she pulled him closer, returning his kisses with guiltless wonder, sighing softly in rapture. So there was fire in her, too. Fire for him as well as for his brother.

At last Grant let her go.

"I want you," he said. "I'll give you everything Larry would have given you and more. Except a wedding ring. Like I told you, I made that mistake once before."

Her lovely face changed subtly, quickly, from the soft glowing expression of a woman newly in love to that of a woman who'd lost everything.

"You really think that I… " A sob caught in her throat.

His expression was harsh.

Her luscious, passionate mouth, swollen from his kisses, quivered. Her face was very pale. He saw the sparkle of new tears spill over her long lashes. Her beautiful neck was taut, her head proudly poised and erect.

"I've made mistakes, too," she said softly in a small, brave voice that didn't quite mask her utter de-spair. "And tonight… you, Grant Hale, were one of them."

He tried to stop her when she tried to go.

"I'm not what you think," she whispered. "And you're not what I thought."

He was forcibly struck by the sorrow in her pain-glazed eyes. She got out of the car and ran all the way to her door where she dropped her keys and struggled with the lock for a long time. He knew she was weeping so hard she couldn't see.

Flushed with anger and frustrated desire, he watched her fumble about, thinking he should help her, thinking he should go, thinking he would forget her, and knowing deep down he never could. When she vanished into the gloom of her apartment building, he started the car and burned rubber in his wildness to get away.

But he'd never forgotten her stricken, tear-streaked face. Not even after she'd married his brother on the rebound. Not in the five years since Larry's death.

There was a whisper from the doorway that had nothing to do with the wind.

Grant opened his eyes and saw Norie standing there, holding a plastic tray with two cups of steaming hot tea, milk, and Christmas cookies. She'd removed her poncho and was wearing a white sweater that clung to her slender body, and a soft woolen skirt. She seemed to hesitate on the threshold, as if she had doubts about the wisdom of joining him in his bedroom.

Her hair fell in dark spirals, framing her lovely face and neck. Her dark eyes were immense and luminous. Just the sight of her looking so gently innocent and vulnerable made his own body feel hard and hot with wild ravening need.

The wind whistled, and the house shuddered from a particularly strong blast.

"Come in," he murmured.

"I was afraid I'd wake you," she replied breathlessly.

He watched her set the tray down on the table by the bed. She handed him a cup of tea and a plate of homemade cookies. Neither spoke for a while, and the silence seemed awkward and heavy to both of them.

"It seems funny… you being here… in this house," she said at last.

"What do you mean?"

"You're used to more glamorous settings-New York, Europe. You've been all over the world."

"I feel at home here… with you."

She stared into her teacup. "We're nothing alike."

"In a way that's true. But there's an old cliche. Opposites attract."

"You never liked me." Her voice was low, whispery.

The knowledge that she had run away and hidden from him for five years weighed heavily on his heart. "I liked you too much," he said through gritted teeth.

Her teacup rattled precariously in its saucer, and she looked up. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Fine. What?"

"I-I don't know. What can two people as different as we are find to talk about?"

Hard pellets of ice pinged on a piece of tin nailed to the roof.

"Maybe the weather." His tone was derisive. "Bad night."

"Yes, it is."

That was all either of them could think of for a very long time. He was too aware of her beauty, too conscious of his need to run his hands through her black hair, to kiss her lush red lips. He felt white-hot with need. There was an awful, passionate, unbreakable tension in that silent room that was tearing them both to pieces. What was going on here? Suave, sophisticated Grant Hale never had trouble talking to a woman.

Desperate for distraction, he forced himself to remember the past. Norie had always been different, unconventional. She'd been an enormous amount of trouble to him. First he'd tried to stop her from marrying his brother. The problem was, she hadn't even known Larry was that interested in her until Grant had told her. Larry had written that letter to his mother when he'd been drunk, in the hopes of stirring her up. Hales were like that. Stirring was in their blood. Larry liked to be the center of a family drama.

Norie had been so upset about what happened between herself and Grant that night in Austin that she'd begun to see Larry in a more favorable light. She'd felt sorry for him for having such a materialistic mother and brother; she'd believed that was why he was so wild and unhappy. In the end she'd acted on impulse for the first time in her life and married Larry. But the marriage had never been a happy one. Not with Georgia's continual interference. Not with her threats to disinherit Larry because he'd chosen such an unsuitable bride. Not with Larry's weak, wavering nature.

They were married for two years. A month before he died, Larry had left Norie to please his mother.

It was the most horrible irony to Grant that he'd driven the only woman he'd ever loved straight into the arms of his brother who had never really cared for her.

Then, right after Larry had killed himself on his motorcycle, Norie had run off for no reason at all.

Norie didn't care about success or money. In fact, Grant wouldn't blame her if she was terrified of money and how it could twist people. She didn't care about knowing the right people, or traveling to the right places. She didn't have a single status-seeking cell in her body. She didn't know anything about fashion or fads. There was no way she could ever fit into his life. Their values were nothing alike. He needed a woman who could shine at cocktail parties, a woman who knew how to be an elegant hostess. A woman his mother could brag about to her friends.

He had had all that.

And it was empty as hell.

He wanted this woman. And he didn't care if it cost him everything he had, everything he was.

Maybe they could talk about the cookies.

The Christmas cookies really were quite interesting. Some of them were expertly painted. There were green Christmas trees with silver balls and red-and-white Santa Clauses. But some of the cookies were painted with a violent, primitive awkwardness. Grant picked up a particularly brilliant, clumsily painted cookie.

"Who painted this?"

She shut her eyes. Her voice was trembly. "A-a little friend."

He remembered Larry telling him about all the neighborhood children that flocked to their house whenever Norie was home. She'd baked for them. Larry had been bored by children.

Norie's teacup rattled again in its saucer, and she quickly changed the subject. "How did you find me?"

"Yesterday morning, I was reading the paper. There was a mention of a UIL meet in Karnes City. I read through the students' names and the names of the teachers and school personnel accompanying them. I saw Noreen Black. I'd been looking for Noreen Hale. After that all it took was a few phone calls. Imagine my amazement when I found out that you were living only fifty miles away. If you hadn't run from me yesterday, we could have settled everything then."

"Settled what?"

"Larry left you an estate, of course. Did you imagine you were penniless?"

"I don't want Larry's money." Her dark eyes flashed. "I never cared… about his money. Anyway, we were separated when he died."

"It's yours, nevertheless. I've been managing it for you ever since."

"I'm sorry to have put you to so much trouble."

His voice was velvet soft. "I didn't mind. I liked knowing I was helping you, Norie."

"I don't want your help."

His gaze roamed her shapely length as heatedly as if he touched her. She began to tremble. Then she stiffened.

"You're afraid of me," he said gently. "Why?"

"I'm not afraid." But her voice was a slender thread of sound.

"Then why did you run from me in San Antonio?"

"Grant, I… " Her throat constricted.

"I came here to help you, Norie."

"I'm perfectly fine. I-I don't need your help."

"I know that I wasn't always your friend. In the beginning Mother and I-"

"I don't need either of you," Norie pleaded desperately.

He felt just as desperate. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe we, that maybe I, need you."

"No. No… " She set the teacup down, her hands fluttering in protest. She got up and was slowly backing away from him.