PRAISE FOR CHRISTINE PACHECO: Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Acknowledgments Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Epilogue Copyright

PRAISE FOR CHRISTINE PACHECO:

“Reading Chris Pacheco is like sitting in a balmy breeze under a banyan tree and savoring your favorite drink. Her books take me away to my favorite escape. She’s sure to please.”

—bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“... terrific... imbued with heart and heat, by an author to watch for.”

—Award-winning author Mallory Rush

“Christine Pacheco packs an emotional punch.... ”

—bestselling author Leanne Banks

“This talented up and coming writer’s quick and witty pace will keep your attention riveted.... ”

—Rogena Brewer, Booklovers

Dear Reader,

Happy Holidays to all of you from the staff of Silhouette Desire! Our celebration of Desire’s fifteenth anniversary continues, and to kick off this holiday season, we have a wonderful new book from Dixie Browning called Look What the Stork Brought. Dixie, who is truly a Desire star, has written over sixty titles for Silhouette.

Next up, The Surprise Christmas Bride by

Maureen Child. If you like stories chock-full of love and laughter, this is the book for you. And Anne Eames continues her MONTANA MALONES miniseries with The Best Little Joeville Christmas.

The month is completed with more Christmas treats:

A Husband in Her Stocking by Christine Pacheco;

I Married a Prince by Kathryn Jensen and Santa Cowboy by Barbara McMahon.

I hope you all enjoy your holidays, and hope that Silhouette Desire will add to the warmth of the season. So enjoy the very best in romance from Desire!

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., PO. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian. P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

A Husband in her Stocking

Christine Pacheco

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHRISTINE PACHECO

married her real-life hero, Jared, who proved to her that dreams really do come true. They live in Colorado with their two children, Raymond and Whitney.

Christine remembers always wanting to be a writer. She even talked her elementary school librarian into “publishing” her books. She notes that she always preferred romances because they’re about that special moment when everything is possible and the future is a gift to unfold.

You can write to Christine at P.O. Box 448, Eastlake, CO 80614.

For Angie, best friend and sister.

Thanks for being my number one fan.

Also for three very special friends, and extraordinarily talented writers, Robin Lee Hatcher, Pamela Johnson and Lisa Craig. Thanks, guys, you’re all angels!

One

Kyle Murdock swore as he turned up the collar on his black leather jacket. He raised his shoulders, fighting in vain for protection against the bite of a cold December wind.

Snow dusted his hair, and several flakes settled on his nose. Odd, only a few hours ago, the skies had been incredibly blue, hardly a cloud in sight.

Now the world was a different place. The landscape had changed. Branches had been buried beneath a blanket of white, and wind had whipped innocent flakes, plowing them into one another, making minifortresses to block his path. Kyle had been left dependent on the help of a stranger.

That was, if anyone heard his knock.

For a third time, he pounded his uncovered knuckles against unyielding wood.

Someone had to be inside the farmhouse—after all, an inviting glow in the curtained window had attracted his attention, luring him from where the weather had stranded him, Kyle paused, listening. He heard nothing but a howl through the treetops.

The remnants of a waning Colorado sun offered no solace against the encroaching evening’s threat. He shivered. The three-mile journey to the nearest town of Jefferson would be hellacious. And to be honest, Kyle wasn’t sure he would even make it.

This definitely wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the holiday. His sister, Pamela, and her family were expecting him. And he’d always believed Christmas was for children. There was little Kyle enjoyed more than watching his niece and nephew on Christmas morning, expressions full of belief and wonder.

Cupping his hands near his mouth, he blew air onto them and shifted his weight from leg to leg.

Slowly, accompanied by the squeak of a rusty hinge, the door to the old farmhouse opened. Light and welcoming heat spilled through the partial opening, but the soft sound of a woman’s voice—soothing, yet steeled with hesitation—stole what little breath remained in his lungs.

“Can I help you?”

He moved a few inches to the right so she could see him, while she retained protection and anonymity. With a numbed thumb, he pointed toward the Harley, which was partially buried in a ditch. “My bike’s stuck.”

She didn’t say anything, and the door denied access to her face.

“If you don’t mind, I need to use your phone, maybe call a tow truck.”

A few seconds of silence. Another heartbeat closer to hypotltermia.

Then slowly, as if on the whisper of an angel’s wings, the door opened wider.

He didn’t wait for a second invitation. Wiping the soles of his boots on the step, he entered the house, transferring his wet leather gloves into one hand.

The woman sealed out the blizzard and closed Kyle in. Heat reached out, enveloping him and allowing him to suck a welcome breath deep into his chest.

He’d barely noted her eye and hair color when the noise from a sudden crash made her face drain of color.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning.

Before he formed a word, she’d dashed away. Kyle stood there for a few moments, debating what to do. Mind his own business? Offer assistance?

“Darn it.”

The faint sound of her pseudo curse reached him, galvanizing him into action. Not stopping to think, he followed the direction she’d taken.

As he strode through the living room, a second crash exploded. Breaking into a near run, he found her in the kitchen, kneeling in front of a huge cupboard, cans of food scattered around her.

A white dog rested a paw triumphantly on a colorful bag sporting a picture of a collie.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Evidently startled, she swung around to look at him. A fringe of layered blond hair shaded her face, but not her wide and wary eyes.

Just then, the animal growled, hackles raised.

“Snowflake...” the woman warned, a sigh of exasperation escaping.

The mangy mutt stalked toward him, and Kyle remained rooted on the spot.

“He’s more bark than bite. He wouldn’t hurt a soul,” she said, pushing up to a standing position.

“Hi, guy,” Kyle said, holding his hand steady and not trusting her words of promise.

Snowflake growled again, then sniffed Kyle’s hand.

“Mind your manners, Snowflake.”

After looking toward his mistress, the dog sat. Apparently satisfied, Snowflake offered his paw. Kyle dutifully shook it.

“Some protector,” she said, but rumpled Snowflake’s fur affectionately when the dog returned to her side. “You managed to get all the way into the kitchen before he noticed you were in the house.” Snowflake stretched out and placed his head on his paws. “Now he thinks you’re his best friend.”

“Obviously he senses you’re in no danger.”

No response.

“He’s right.”

The woman wiped her hand down the thigh of cream-colored leggings. For the first time he noticed just how attractive his savior was. Blond, hazel-eyed, and with ladylike curves all in the right places. A potent combination.

“Kyle Murdock,” he said, extending a hand.

Surprisingly she took it. Heat met cold. He felt the icy tentacles of winter’s grip melting away at her touch. Maybe, just maybe, he’d survive the storm, after all.

She was more petite than he’d realized, only a few notches above five feet. Her smaller hand disappeared inside his larger one, and he had an insane urge to hold on to it longer than was polite.

With a slight smile, she extricated her hand.

Kyle realized her wide-open eyes——expressive and large—were her most compelling feature, making a man think of long, hot nights and a bed barely big enough for two.

Right now her eyes contained a hint of caution that made the hazel color appear darker than he suspected was normal. He reminded himself he should be on his way, try to find a hotel before the storm worsened.

“Mind if I use your phone?”

She pointed to a small oak stand and said, “It’s right over there.”

The woman moved aside, and he took his time removing the unnecessary aviator shades from his eyes. In anonymity, he savored her subtle beauty. She wasn’t gorgeous in the normal sense, but the aura of dignity and serenity she wore—a complete antithesis to what raged inside him—transcended the usual, making her seem extraordinary.

She seemed alluring, unpretentious. And so different from the woman he’d nearly married.

Dismissing the thought, as it was leading him in a direction he didn’t dare go, Kyle tucked his glasses inside a pocket of his jacket. He crossed to the far wall and placed his gloves on the oak telephone stand, then thumbed through the directory until he found the single listing for a towing service. He punched in the numbers.

One ring, followed by a second. Then silence ricocheted down the line. “The phone’s dead.”

She swallowed deeply, folding her arms around her middle. The action stretched the cotton material of her pastel pink sweater taut across her breasts.

Kyle gulped.

He hadn’t imagined the woman could have such unbelievable impact on his long neglected libido.

Turning away, he replaced the phone in its cradle, trying to erase the vivid sight of her from his mind.

Through the window above the sink, he saw the swirling snow and dreaded the thought of braving the brutal elements again. Facing her once more, he asked, “Maybe your husband could help me dig out the Harley?”

Several seconds of silence yawned between them.

“I don’t have a husband.”

She lived out here all alone? And opened her door to strangers? He didn’t like it. Not one bit. And the fact he didn’t like something that was none of his business irritated the hell out of him.

“But I do have a twelve-gauge shotgun.”

He raised a brow.

“And competency in its use.”

“Noted.” He allowed a smile. Her tentative one was reward enough.

Just as quickly, though, the smile disappeared and her brow furrowed.

It was interesting to watch her undisguised play of emotions. She’d knotted a hand at her side, and her shoulders were slightly rounded, protective. But her whiskey-colored eyes remained wide.

“You must be cold,” she said softly, almost reluctantly.

“Frozen,” he admitted. “I was trying to make it to Conifer before nightfall—”

“You still can. I’ll drive you. My car’s in the port.” Her voice held a breathless note. Obviously she was relieved to have arrived at a logical conclusion. And he hated to shatter that resolution.

She reached for a coat that hung near the back door but stopped at Kyle’s words. “It’s snowed in.” She looked at him, and he noted a frown had settled on her features. “The carport that’s at the side of the house?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I noticed when I was walking up to the door that there’s two, maybe three, feet of snow blocking it.”

The woman dropped her hand.

Kyle grabbed the gloves he’d placed on the phone stand and offered a wan grin. “I appreciate your help.” He stuffed unwilling fingers into the soggy, cold leather, then started back toward the front door.

“Wait,” she said, the word uttered so softly he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.

Kyle Murdock stopped and leveled his disturbingly blue eyes on her. Meghan wished for her word back. Common sense warred with what resided in her heart.

She couldn’t allow a stranger who rode a Harley and wore danger cloaked by black leather to stay in her house.

Nor could she send him back out in the cold. She’d noticed the way wind had bitten at his hands and face. The elements were merciless, and her heart wouldn’t permit her to turn him away.

“Yes?”

The sound of his voice worked as a balm on her lonely soul. She’d been absorbed in her work for several days. No neighbors had stopped by, and the phone hadn’t rung, not even with her mother’s obligatory weekly phone call. Until she had opened the front door, Meghan hadn’t even realized it had been snowing.

Still, she knew not just any voice would work on her senses the way Kyle Murdock’s did. No...there was something special about his. Low, deep, masculine, but with a cadence that spoke of education and reassurance, despite his attire.

She shouldn’t trust him.

Was too smart to trust him.

“Mr. Murdock—”

“Kyle,” he corrected her softly, sensually.

“Kyle,” she repeated, the harshness of the single syllable swirling in her mind. “You appear to be stranded here.”

“I’ll walk to town.”

“It’s three miles.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Even though he tried to hide it, she saw his involuntary wince and noticed the way a solitary snowflake melted into the clear-night darkness of his thick hair. The leather gloves he wore were damp and stiff. And the man was already half-frozen.

If anything happened to him, Meghan would never forgive herself. That would be a greater sin than hospitality—even with the risks. Besides, she did have the gun, even if she couldn’t imagine using it on him.

He didn’t need to know that, though.

She swallowed, trying to moisten her mouth. “Please...stay.”

“I appreciate the offer, Ms....”

He had intentionally trailed off, trying to get her to supply her name. For some reason, she steadfastly held on to that information, as if it offered protection.

“Mr. Murdock—Kyle,” she amended when he opened his mouth to speak again. “There’s apparently a blizzard out there. In whiteout conditions, you can’t see a hundred feet in front of you. You’d be lucky not to get lost, even luckier to make it back to town.”

She lowered her voice, trying to keep her tone reasonable. “Jefferson doesn’t have a hotel, and Kenosha Pass is probably closed.”

She swallowed, waiting for him to frame his response. Meghan forced herself to unknot the hand at her side, realizing the action had radiated tension up her arm and across her shoulder.

His response didn’t matter to her. He was a grown man. If he wanted to battle the elements like the warrior he appeared to be, it was none of her concern.

At least, that’s what she tried telling herself.

In honesty, she wanted him to stay.

Pretending his decision meant little or nothing to her, Meghan looked into his compelling eyes. Mouth dry as clay baked in the summer sun, she said, “You can hang your coat on the peg.”

He appraised her for a few seconds, each moment seeming to grow and stretch with tension. Finally, he gave a slight nod.

Her offer had been accepted. For better or worse.

She offered a quick prayer that it was for the better.

The sound of a metal snap surrendering under his grip riveted her interest. A second snap released, then the drag of a zipper filled the kitchen.

The sound reminded her of sex.

Within seconds, he’d shucked the jacket. A crimsoncolored flannel shirt snuggled against his shoulders, conforming as if made exclusively for him. The top button hung open. She wildly wondered what resided beneath.

Kyle was big, well muscled, all male. And she was stuck with him under her roof until the storm blew over. That could take twenty minutes, twenty-four hours or several days. She gulped. “I’ll get you a towel,” she said, desperate to get away.

Meghan went through the living room and down the hall, grabbing two towels from the linen closet. She stalled on her return, leaning against a wall. A long-denied part of her was well aware of his masculinity, along with its not-so-subtle effects on her.

Kyle Murdock bothered her.

Still, she saw that snow was steadily melting from his boots, making a mess on the worn tile flooring. Taking a deep breath, she shoved away from the wall and crossed back to the kitchen.

Kyle’s large coat hung from a peg next to hers, leather contrasting with down, black contrasting with pale pink, masculine contrasting with feminine.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching for a towel and scrubbing at his hair.

The result was intimately devastating.

Cropped hair now contained a hint of curl, a wayward lock falling across his forehead. Kyle shoved it back, then bent to remove his riding boots. To distract herself from the sight of him in tight, damp black jeans, she mopped water and ice with a towel.

Within a minute, he stood there, a large man in the kitchen that suddenly seemed small. “We can light a fire,” she said, then wondered why her voice contained a hoarse scratch. Meghan cleared her throat and added, “To help you dry off... warm up.”

He followed her into the living room. She realized no man, other than her father, had ever been in her house.

She reached for a log, only to have it slide from her grip. Meghan swore as a splinter sank into her fingertip.

Before she could extract the piece of wood, Kyle was at her side. He took her hand and stole her breath. With gentleness that belied his size, he cradled her hand in his much colder one, yet it was anything but a chill that seeped into her.

In fact, the oozing sensation that spilled through her surprised her with its welcoming warmth.

Kyle raised his palm slightly to see the sliver better, then closed the splinter between thumb and forefinger.

“Damn,” he muttered, not able to grasp the small fragment well enough to pull it out. “Let me try again.”

The feel of his blunted nail on her skin sent a shiver racing toward her toes.

“That hurt?”

He glanced up from what he was doing, meeting her gaze. She clearly saw his expression and read concern in the way his eyebrows drew together. “No,” she whispered.

“Give me a sec, I’ll get it out of there.”

Kyle looked away, breaking the spellbinding hold he had over her. Meghan blinked, suddenly glad she hadn’t sent him away.

“Got it.”

She gasped when he pulled out the tiny piece of wood.

“Okay?”

The momentary pain receded. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do for the woman who saved me from freezing to death.” He smiled then, the act transforming his features. He no longer seemed frightening or overwhelming.

Scratch that, she realized. Kyle Murdock was definitely overwhelming. Thinking he wasn’t would only be pure illusion.

He released her, and the air no longer seemed as warm.

“I’ll light the fire,” Kyle said.

She seized the offer. “And I’ll make coffee.”

“That’d be great.”

She headed for the kitchen.

“Ma’am?”

Meghan paused, the sound of his baritone sending skitters across her senses.

“Thank you.”

She escaped.

In the kitchen again, Meghan leaned against the counter, allowing the breath she’d been holding to rush out. Her finger throbbed as she recalled the feel of him. His touch had been warm, even though it shouldn’t have been—not when he was so cold.

Motions automatic, she dumped the dregs of the coffee she’d made this morning and rinsed the pot. As the caffeine-rich water gurgled into the carafe, Meghan moved to the stove, trying to block out the image of Kyle Murdock that filled her mind’s eye.

She failed.

He was completely unlike her ex-husband, Jack, different from any of the men she socialized with. Kyle was rough around the edges, potent and sexy.

Not the kind of man she thought she wanted.

In an attempt to stay busy, she grabbed a spoon to stir the stew on the stove. Meghan grimaced. She’d gotten so carried away sculpting the final batch of angels that dinner had started to burn, sticking to the bottom of the pan.

Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d eaten nothing all day except a bowl of cereal before the sun poked past the horizon.

Then a second, more intrusive thought rocked her: When she ate, Kyle Murdock would be sitting at the small table with her.

Her shoulders sagged. This situation was getting more and more complicated by the minute.

The faint scent of sulphur wafted on the air, and she heard the crackle of wood.

Kyle Murdock was making himself at home in her house.

The splashing noise from the coffeemaker diminished, and the bread-making machine, bought as an indulgence during a lonely Thanksgiving weekend, beeped three times, indicating it was done.

Snowflake pawed at the dog food he’d proudly pulled from the cupboard, telling Meghan in no uncertain terms that he was hungry, too.

After obligingly dumping moist food in a bowl adorned with Snowflake’s name, Meghan started to stack the metal cans again, making a mental note to buy a latch for the cupboard door. Snowflake had made his favorite pastime—eating—into an annoying habit.

“Anything I can do to help?”

The sound of Kyle’s rich baritone made Meghan jump. How on earth had he approached without her hearing?

She didn’t look at him; instead, she picked up a metal can and added it to the pile. “Everything’s under control.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied.

He crouched next to her, muscular thigh pressed against her own, softer one. Strange sensations startled her.

Without a word, Kyle straightened the haphazard stack she’d made, then reached for the final can.

Reluctantly, she gave it to him.

He stood, offering his hand to her.

Meghan looked at him.

“I scare you.”

“No.” Her lie was blatant.

“I do.”

She shook her head too fast.

He continued to hold out his hand. A challenge?

Against her better sense, Meghan accepted. She swore to herself she wasn’t frightened, yet she was forced to admit she felt a definite awareness of him as a powerful male.

He pulled her up, not stopping until she stood barely inches from him. Her pulse thundered and heat suffused her.

She felt...womanly.

“Prove it.”

She had to look up, a long way, to meet his gaze. He was tall, a little over six foot, a huge contrast to her five feet three inches. His hands were large, and as she couldn’t help but notice, lacked a wedding band.

The scent of him, that of mountain air and power, combined with his proximity, his touch, his commanding hold, made Meghan moisten her teeth with her tongue. She recognized the nervous gesture, had cultivated it over the years. And she’d never hated the habit as much as she did at this second.

“Prove it,” he challenged again. “Prove you’re not scared of me.”

She swallowed. “Prove it?”

“Give me something.”

Her mind raced in symphony with the hammering of her heart.

“Your name,” Kyle said softly. “Tell me your name.”

Two

The challenge hung in the air between them, as powerful as the pounding of his heart. He noticed her breaths were hollow, and he saw the confusion that raced across her features.

For a second, her lashes drifted together, shutting out the honesty her eyes contained. Would she grant him the gift of her name? Could she?

Could she not?

Her lashes parted, and she looked at him. Directly. Her expression was so direct that the sensation rocked him to the soles of his feet.

“Meghan,” she said.

“Meghan,” he repeated, sliding the syllables around his tongue, savoring its subtle taste.

“Meghan Carroll.”

He nodded. The name fit. Soft Feminine. And with a hint of mystery. Meghan. Yeah. He liked it...liked it a lot.

She shifted; he wondered if she was waiting expectantly for his response.

“Nice name.”

The release of her breath sifted through him. She had been waiting. That said a lot about her. But one thing was sure: she wasn’t frightened of him. Skittish maybe, but not scared. That instantly upped his opinion of her. Kyle didn’t care much for spinelessness.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

Her tone was reluctant, as if she knew she had to ask the question, but regretted the necessity. Still, he answered with honesty. “Starving.”

“I guess...you should eat with me.”

“Is that an invitation?” Kyle cocked a grin.

The tension on her face lessened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound that way.”

“What way?” He waited for her to respond, wondered if she’d do it with the same frankness she’d shown so far.

“Rude. That was rude, and I’m not usually rude.”

“Do you usually have strange men in your kitchen?”

With her right hand, she brushed errant strands of hair away from her face. He stood close to her, closer than she probably liked, yet he didn’t back off.

Kyle caught the faint whiff of her understated perfume—light with a hint of unfulfilled promise—and couldn’t recall the last time he’d been with a woman as sensually appealing as Meghan.

He wondered why he suddenly felt hungry, not physically but emotionally.

“No,” she finally admitted. “You’re the first man who’s been in my kitchen.”

The information stunned him, pleased him. It shouldn’t have, but it did. And how.

“I’ll serve,” Meghan said, shattering the tension that had slowly been building. “If you set the table.”

“Ah, a modern woman.”

She gave a small smile that transformed her features and made his insides flame with awareness.

“You can do the dishes, too,” she said.

“Do I smell homemade bread?”

She indicated a small white appliance. “Bread-maker—my one extravagance this year.”

“All this for the measly price of setting the table and washing the dishes?”

“I hate doing dishes.”

Slowly, she’d revealed several aspects of her personality. Kyle wanted each stripped and laid bare before him. And he had a few thoughts about what to do once they were. “Lady, you’ve got a deal.”

Kyle hadn’t been in a kitchen like this for years. It covered at least three hundred square feet, huge, rambling and, by today’s standards, a waste of space.

But he remembered a similar kitchen, always filled with the scent of spice. Kyle also recalled helping his grandmother, Grandma Aggie, in that kitchen, begging for the honor of cracking the eggs against the ancient metal strip surrounding the counter.

“Something funny?” Meghan asked.

Startled at her perception, he looked up from setting bowls and silverware on the table.

“You’re smiling,” she added.

“My grandmother had a kitchen like this. Brings back memories.” His own designer kitchenette didn’t look anything similar to either. Meghan’s kitchen didn’t have a microwave; his was built in above the stove he’d never used. Nor did she have a dishwasher. But she had something he didn’t: a feeling of home.

Kyle realized he wouldn’t have been as comfortable in her home if her kitchen had resembled his. That thought gave him pause, made him question, again, his reasons for deciding to return to Chicago and accept control of Murdock Enterprises—his father’s business—in the New Year.

Snowflake entered the kitchen, toenails clicking on the worn floor. He curled beneath the table, apparently anxious for handouts. Judging by the extra few pounds on the mutt, Meghan was an indulgent mistress.

A soft heart.

No surprise there. He wouldn’t be shocked to learn Snowflake had shown up on her doorstep—much like Kyle—and that she’d kept the animal.

Meghan poured two cups of coffee, then joined Kyle at the table. Their knees brushed. Their glances collided. And then she slammed him in the solar plexus by licking her lower lip.

Longing. And an urge to possess.

Neither feeling was welcome. But there they were, raw and honest. Trouble was, there wasn’t a thing he could do about them.

Kyle had promised she was in no danger from him. In that instant, he wondered if he’d lied.

He wanted Meghan Carroll with an intensity that stunned him.

And he wouldn‘t—couldn’t—have her.

He was merely passing through town, not intending to stay. His life lay elsewhere, much as he hated that fact. So far his search for answers had revealed only one thing—you were who you were.

No escape.

Exerting the iron control for which he was famous, he tamped down the flare of wanting and picked up the ladle.

“Don’t scoop any from the bottom.”

He paused.

“The bottom part is burned.” She gave a little shrug. “I got carried away with my work. Forgot about dinner.”

Judging by her size, she forgot often. She needed a keeper, Kyle realized. But he couldn’t fill that role.

He envied the man who would.

Taking stew from the pan, he filled her bowl, then his.

She met his eyes, and for a few seconds, silence shrouded the empty house. Did she feel it, too, this tug that was as undeniable as it was real?

And what the hell were they supposed to do?

She raised a spoon to her lips and sipped. Kyle’s gut tightened. Desperate to distract himself, he followed suit. He allowed that first bite to linger, enjoying the flavor. Realizing he was close to a sigh, he swallowed. “My grandmother used to make stew like this.”

Wistful sadness dropped her tone. “I never knew my grandmother.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. His grandmother had been the single bright spot in a bleak childhood. He didn’t remember his mother—he was too young when she died. His father had thrown himself into building the business Kyle’s grandfather had started. Precious little time had been left over for either Kyle or his older sister, Pamela.

Yet Grandma Aggie had tried to fill all the voids. She’d given them birthdays and holidays, given them love and hope.

Meghan broke off a piece of her bread, then fed it to a vigilant Snowflake.

Kyle had a sudden insight into his own lonely life-style. No one cared if he came home at night. No one noticed.

It didn’t matter. Never had. Maybe never would.

Ruthlessly shoving aside the sober feelings, Kyle said, “This is a fabulous farmhouse.” His skilled eye had noted the solid construction, along with the repairs the house cried out for.

Yet there was something else... He drummed his fingers on the table. Something bothered him about the farmhouse, as if it were lacking a detail just beyond the obvious. Try as he might, Kyle couldn’t put his finger on the missing element.

“I fell in love with the house the first time I saw it.”

“How long have you been here?”

She set down her spoon. He’d done it again, pushed past the impersonal to the personal. He stopped his motions and waited for her response. When he’d given up, convinced she’d change the subject, she said, “Three years.”

“You’ve lived out here all alone for three years?”

“Well, not alone, I have Snowflake—”

“And a shotgun,” he added.

That brought a slight smile. He relished the victory. “Do you ever get lonely, Meghan?”

“I enjoy my own company,” she hedged.

Why did it matter to him, anyway? In less than a day, he would climb on the back of the Beast and continue home to Chicago. Meghan would be a comfortable memory, one that would fade once the routine set back in.

A lie.

He’d told himself a lie. Meghan Carroll wasn’t a woman easily forgotten.

After dinner, while she straightened up, he washed the dishes, as promised. Suds foamed everywhere, since he didn’t have a clue how long he should have squirted the liquid under the running water. To her credit, she didn’t say a word.

“Shall we finish our coffee in the living room?” she offered.

Grateful for an excuse to exit the kitchen before she assigned him another task he wasn’t up to, he agreed. While he attempted to wash the white bubbles down the drain, she topped their coffee.

He thought he caught a mischievous glint in her eyes but, since she didn’t say anything, dismissed it as a trick of the lighting.

Snowflake curled up on a rug, and Meghan took the high-backed chair near the crackling fireplace. Kyle tossed another piece of wood on the fire, poked at the still-burning log, then closed the safety grate.

He stood, looking at the blowing snow through the ice-encrusted window. Wind whipped flakes against the pane, making him shiver. Yet a cozy fire licked at dried timber. Outside was frightful, but inside, was so...

That’s when he realized it.

What was missing.

Christmas.

No sign of Christmas—not a single one—existed anywhere in the old farmhouse.

By this time of year, only four days before Christmas, his grandmother would have pestered Granddad into cutting a tree. Evergreen arrangements would adorn each end table, and garlands would hang from every possible place.

Pinecones would dangle from the mantel, tied together with red velvet. Presents, wrapped in every color imaginable, would have been artfully placed beneath the tree’s bottom branches, at least two packages bearing tags lettered with Kyle’s name.

Even though Grandma Aggie had passed away, Christmas still meant a lot to him. It meant a chance to be with Pam, Mark and their kids, and its absence here felt completely wrong.

Tucking a hand in a front pocket of his jeans, he turned back to face her. “Meghan?”

She looked at him over the rim of the coffee cup, steam rising to bathe her face. Although she didn’t say anything, hazel eyes questioned him.

“You don’t have a Christmas tree.”

The fireplace crackled. Snowflake lifted a paw and placed it across his head.

Softly, she said, “I don’t see the point anymore.”

“Don’t see...?”

She raised her shoulders defensively. “I live out here alone.”

Even his empty apartment had an artificial tree, which the housekeeper had dragged from a box after Thanksgiving. “So?”

“Christmas is just another day.”

“Is it?” he asked. “What about the meaning of Christmas—family, caring, sharing?”

“What about it, Kyle?” She placed her coffee cup on a coaster on the end table and looked up at him. “What makes Christmas so special? It isn’t for me.”

She blinked, as if she was trying to disguise some emotion. “I get up, have my coffee, take care of my chores, try to call my parents—the lines are usually all busy—then get to work. It’s another day.”

He heard a shallow, underlying pain, maybe tinged with regret. What was it about him—about her—that made him want to take that hurt and erase it, replacing it with something new, with warm memories?

Kyle dismissed the thought; it was as unwelcome as it was impossible.

He wouldn’t be here long enough. Besides, what right did he have to insist she celebrate Christmas? It was a personal choice.

But damn it, that foolish, sentimental urge just refused to be tamped down. The house all but cried out for attention, for warmth and spontaneity, for a family.

Too bad, he told himself ruthlessly. She wanted no part of it.

The lamps flickered threateningly. Wind howled through the windows, rattling the glass. The fire hissed and jumped. “Do you have flashlights? Maybe some candles?” If he didn’t miss his guess, the electricity would soon fail.

“In the kitchen.” She stood, seemingly anxious to be alone.

He made no move to follow her. Obviously he bothered her, probably more than she cared to admit. Truth to tell, she bothered him. More than he cared to admit.

The lights blinked again, driving him into action. It promised to be a long night. “Meghan?” he asked, following her into the kitchen. “Where’s your wood storage?”

“There’s a closet right there.”

While she gathered a flashlight and candles, he grabbed two kerosene lanterns from a shelf. In the living room, she placed everything on the coffee table, working around the oblivious Snowflake.

By the time he stacked the second load of wood next to the fireplace, the lights gave a final flicker.

Kyle and Meghan’s eyes met. Then their world faded to complete darkness.

Intimacy seemed to take on a life of its own. Kyle was very much aware of the woman standing near him.

“Kyle?”

“Right here. I’ll have a lantern lit in a sec.” The absence of light enhanced his other senses, making the sound of her voice more provocative. He noticed the soft ebb and flow of her breaths, the very feminine scent of her potent perfume and the indescribable impact of her presence.

Want flared in timing with the match he struck against a brick. Within moments, the whiff of kerosene hung pungently in the air. Mother Nature blasted the house and tension dropped over them.

“I guess you’re well and truly stuck now,” she said.

He nodded, then noticed the way dim lantern light and fire glow played on her blond hair.

Temptation.

Kyle tried to resist, told himself to resist, ordered himself to resist.

And failed.

He reached out to her, traced his fingertip down her cheek—soft, so soft. Caught in the spell of lantern light and snow, she seemed ethereal, a result of the magical season.

She stiffened but didn’t pull away.

Their gazes locked, he read loneliness in her eyes and knew it matched his own.

Snowflake belatedly barked, shattering the sensual moment. Meghan slowly moved away, then lit a second lantern. She adjusted the wick when black smoke filled the glass carafe.

He couldn’t help but notice the way her hand shook.

“I’ll...er, set up one of the bedrooms for you.”

“The couch is fine,” he said. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him, but she was grateful for his suggestion. The farther away he was the better.

“I don’t mind the couch.”

She nodded and disappeared for a few minutes, carrying a flashlight, a lazy Snowflake her reluctant companion. Kyle sat on the couch and drank from his coffee in silence. Now that he’d spent an evening with someone special in a Colorado Christmas storm, it made him realize how empty and bleak his own life was.

Even if the snow disappeared overnight and he made it home for the holidays, he would still face January 2 as a lonely man.

Although Meghan might not celebrate Christmas, she knew the meaning of the season. She’d taken in a perfect stranger, given him food, warmth, shelter. If that wasn’t the spirit of Christmas, he didn’t know what was.

A tinder leaped, hitting the grate.

Kyle vowed to find a way to pay Meghan back for the generous gift of her hospitality.

She returned carrying blankets and sheets, even a feather pillow. The linens smelled fresh, as if dried in a breeze—not in an appliance.

While Meghan plumped the pillow, he wondered what her hair would look like spread across the soft surface.

Kyle stood and reached for the sheet she’d draped over the chair. “I’ll do that,” he said, freezing her midmotion.

After a few seconds, she said, “Thanks, but I’ve got it.” Meghan accepted the sheet from him, her fingers rubbing across his. Her eyes opened wide before she blinked and turned away.

Motions smooth and economical, she tucked the sheet between the cushions and couch back. Her cotton sweater moved with her, riding high and affording him a view of her thighs and hips.

It was going to be a hell of a long night, he realized again—and not just because of the cold.

He shook out a blanket, then spread it on top of the sheet. If he didn’t do something—anything—he would succumb to the impulse of touching her again, bothering her even more than he already had. That would be unpardonable, a breach of her hospitality.

The resolution didn’t stop him from remembering the feel of her, though.

She turned back to face him, picked up a lantern. The light shed a halo of gold around her, caressing her features the way he wanted to.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Even in the limited lighting, he noticed her blush. The question had been unintentionally intimate; he let it go. Instead, he shook his head.

“In that case, good night.”

He waited until she reached the bottom of the stairs, then spoke. “Meghan?”

She paused.

“I’ll...”

“Yes?”

“Find a way to make this up to you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Which was why he was doubly determined to repay her. Meghan started up the stairs, leaving him alone and feeling more lonely than he had in years.

Meghan tossed and turned.

Muted sounds from the living room filtered up the stairs. She heard her houseguest moving around.

Undressing?

She thumped her pillow.

The night chill seemed to seep beneath her blankets, freezing her. Her toes curled against the cold.

She ordered herself to go to sleep. The moment her eyes closed, though, thoughts of Kyle made her imagination leap with possibilities. Vivid pictures painted on top of what she’d already noted: broad shoulders, lean hips, muscular thighs.

In her mind, she saw his naked torso, his back, his biceps.

She cracked open her eyes and automatically searched for the digital display telling the time. Remembering the electncal failure, she turned over, willing herself to relax.

The second attempt was no more successful than the first.

She still couldn’t believe she’d invited the man to spend the night, couldn’t believe the way he’d taken over and performed several tasks, lightening the load of her responsibilities.

And she especially couldn’t believe the way her body reacted to his, seeming to hum with vibrant awareness.

His touch hadn’t been anything, really—less than a good-night kiss on a first date. But her insides had turned molten... a crackling need sparked to life. The feel of his finger on her cheek had made her want more, want to turn her head into his palm and rest it there.

He hadn’t meant anything, but heaven help her, she’d wanted more.

She groaned. Meghan Carroll did not respond this way to just any man.

It’d been a long time since Jack—years since her heart had raced. Yet Kyle had done that—oh, so effectively—in mere moments.

He hadn’t respected the lines she’d drawn around her personal life, either. Kyle had tried to push past her walls, asking for answers she had never given anyone. She shivered this time not because of the cold but because she suspected Kyle would demand more if he stayed.

She hoped she was strong enough to brave the storm that was Kyle Murdock.

For several hours, she dozed off and on. A vicious blast of wind rattled the house, shaking the window. Snowflake whimpered and bounded onto the bed, startling Meghan from her disturbed sleep.

She was shivering, the temperature in the bedroom having fallen sharply. No matter how tight a ball she curled into, she couldn’t produce any heat.

Conceding the battle, she sat up and fumbled with the flashlight. After reaching for her heavy terry cloth robe, Meghan climbed from the bed, sliding her feet into furry slippers.

She tiptoed down the stairs, intending to make a cup of tea to warm her up before trying to sleep again.

One hand gripping the banister, she paused, the glow from the flashlight falling on Kyle. Six foot plus of raw masculine energy was sprawled across the cushions of her too-small couch. Suddenly, breathing became an act requiring concentration.

A blanket covered him from the waist down, but his chest was bare and every bit as well developed as her imagination teased.

Even in sleep, he didn’t look innocent, not at all. In fact, he still appeared darkly dangerous.

She swallowed. Aware of acting like a voyeur, she consciously averted her gaze and directed the beam of light at the floor as she continued past him, Snowflake on her heels.

In the kitchen, she lit a lantern, filling the room with a soft glow, and momentarily banishing the blizzard’s fury.

As she turned on the tap and filled the kettle, Meghan released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Glad, for once, of the ancient gas stove that didn’t need electricity, she found matches and lit the burner.

In the silence of the storm, Meghan reached for the clay angel sitting on the counter and traced her fingers across the wings she’d painstakingly sculpted.

This angel, Lexie, was her favorite, named after the grandmother who’d died before she was born. It was one of Meghan’s first-ever attempts at sculpting, yet the one angel she’d been unable to part with. “Well, Lexie, what are we going to do?”

Lexie maintained her perpetually serene smile, offering Meghan some comfort. She replaced the figurine. As the kettle began to hiss, she switched off the gas.

Snowflake plopped down near his bowl, and Meghan carried her cup and tea bag to the table and stirred in a single spoon of sugar.

“Is there tea for two?”

Her spoon clattered to the table. She looked up.

Kyle lazed against the doorjamb, wearing an unbuttoned shirt, tight jeans...and a tempting-as-sin smile.

And the problem was, Meghan realized as her insides constricted into a hyper-aware knot, she was tempted.

Heaven help her, she was tempted.

Three

“Do you see them?” The newer angel’s words were breathless, woven on puffs of air coming from a divinely distant realm.

Lexie smiled as another blip of pure-pink energy zapped past her. “It’s a good sign,” the older angel agreed, folding in her right wing gracefully when another burst of sensually radiant energy sailed by.

“I’m so glad we were able to squeeze so much snow from the clouds.” Grandma Aggie’s eyes opened wide and she looked over her shoulder, as if fearing repercussions from the admission. She twisted her hands together, then she sighed. “Oh, Lexie, do you suppose our reprimand wilt be terrible?”

Lexie smiled serenely, no stranger to breaking the rules. Where Meghan was concerned, Lexie often followed her heart rather than her head. She simply couldn’t bear to watch her darling granddaughter suffer. And now with a co-conspirator... well, Archangel Michael had said it best, himself...trouble had doubled since Aggie’s arrival several years ago, when the two had become fast celestial friends. It hadn’t been long before their individual goals for Meghan and Kyle had become a mutual plan. “I’m sure we’ll have some answering to do.”

Another strand of Grandma Aggie’s hair, black as the coal Santa would leave for some, turned gray.

“But it’s Christmas, and the others are distracted making wishes come true,” Lexie added. “And that’s all we’re doing. Trying to make wishes come true.”

“But neither of them wished for each other.”

“That’s simply beside the point,” Lexie said, sending a mental message of peace to her partner in crime—or in this case, romance.

“They’ll realize soon enough they wished for each other,” Lexie continued, then added her silent hope that her promise would prove true. “If we’re very lucky, Meghan will believe in Christmas again. Then we’ll be rewarded with wings of gold, instead of being chastised.” She straightened the halo that had, oddly enough, tipped to one side.

“Oh, dear me, do look!” Aggie pointed to Meghan.

A flush had stolen over Meghan’s face, and her breathing pattern had changed, becoming more shallow by the moment.

Kyle, Aggie’s grandson, took a step into the kitchen.

“He is handsome,” Lexie approved, holding her hands near her heart and feeling the soothing balm of heat.

“Not only that, but he’s a good person inside,” Aggie added loyally.

The sensual chemistry between the two humans wavered in the air, sending shock waves of vibrancy into the atmosphere.

Kyle’s jeans rode low on his hips as he took another step, skittering tension everywhere.

“My...my goodness,” Aggie breathed.

“I guess the rest is up to them.” Lexie spread her wings wide, enveloping the newer arrival in the protective folds. “Er...it’s not polite to peek when things like this start to...” She searched for the right word, cleared her throat. “Percolate.”

“Oh. Oh, my.”

Lexie cracked her gum, ignoring the gentle waves of chastisement buffeting her from above. “Now to think of a suitable excuse so our silver wings don’t get taken away. Puppy duty is entirely too much work....”

Kyle took a second, then third, and finally a fourth step into the kitchen, and Meghan slumped in her chair.

There was something about him, something so real and powerful that made rational thought impossible.

She picked up her cup, holding it with a shaky hand, well aware of Kyle’s intense perusal. Fingers slightly unsteady, she raised her tea to take a deep drink, only to succeed in scalding her tongue.

Kyle took a seat across from her. The sight of his half-naked body was a visual feast. His chest seemed broader this close, and her mind noted each detail of his muscular build. Well-developed biceps spoke of strength, making her wonder what it might feel like to be cradled, protected.

The scattering of dark hair made her fingers tingle in anticipation. The way denim conformed to his muscles induced thoughts she hadn’t known she was capable of.

Meghan hadn’t ever had a lewd thought.

Until now.

Even though the power had failed, electricity all but hummed around them.

He reached for the teakettle and grabbed a mug from the cup tree on the table. His hand stilled, and he glanced around. “Did you hear something?”

Meghan heard precious little above the rush of blood humming through her veins.

“A rustling, like feathers?”

She shook her head.

With a shrug, he said, “Must be hearing things.” Then he placed the mug on the table. “How do you do this?”

“Do what?” The words emerged weak and broken. Breathing took an act of incredible concentration.

“Make tea.” He grinned. “I haven’t done it before.”

Her breath expelled in a heartbeat.

“Which do I put in first, the water or the bag?”

She’d never imagined that mundane conversation could require so much effort. Then again, this was a first for her. “Tea bag first.”

“Gotcha.”

He followed her instructions, then started to squeeze the excess tea from the bag.

“Don’t.” She automatically reached across the table to stop his motion, placing her hand on top of his.

He dropped the tea bag.

The warmth of human touch stole into her.

She gulped, commanding her brain to move her hand away.

She couldn’t.

Then Kyle sealed her hand within his. And suddenly, all oxygen vanished from the room.

Her skin was warm and soothed, her heart fast and furious. Her mouth was dry while her insides moistened with recognized need.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the unwelcome feeling. She didn’t want, didn’t need anyone. Especially Kyle Murdock.

But their gazes locked, and urgency in his eyes communicated to her.

Imminent danger cloaked her, and she needed to escape. With more resolution than she actually felt, she pulled her hand free.

She blinked, telling herself she’d imagined the sensory assault.

But her hand trembled.

She hadn’t imagined it. It was there, and real as anything she’d ever experienced. Looking skyward, she offered a silent plea for help. Her emotions were tangled around and within her physical response, and she didn’t know what to do, how to act. The snow needed to end—now. The roads needed to be clear by dawn.

A gust of wind slashed the window with a sheet of driven white snow.

Obviously, she would receive no help from above.

Which left her alone...with Kyle and simmering awareness.

“Does it really make a difference?”

She stalled for seconds, then gave in and looked at him. “Make a difference?” Meghan tried for a light, airy tone. She’d been so caught up in mental, as well as the all-too physical, images of him, she hadn’t been able follow his conversation.

He grinned, cocking his head to the side. Coherent thought was impossible when that damnable lock of hair fell across his forehead again. She wanted to brush back the wayward hair, absorb each tactile sensation.

“The tea, not squeezing it?”

A thousand sensations had crowded her; not a single one of them concerned tea. “It’s, er, less bitter that way.”

“Some things are less bitter if they do get squeezed.”

Oh, Lord. She was sinking. Drowning.

This was all so unreal, couldn’t possibly be happening. Winter’s fury made her feel isolated and stranded, as if Kyle were the only link to the outside world.

After a few more moments of intense study, Kyle seemed to sense her discomfort. Breaking eye contact, he put two spoons of sugar in his cup, stirred, sipped, then cringed.

“It’s not coffee,” she supplied, retreating from intimacy like a shadow hiding from the sun.

“You can say that again.” He added another mound of sugar, then stirred again.

“Next time I’ll make instant coffee.”

“This is fine.”

His lie hung on the air, making her smile. Kyle was a lousy liar—maybe on a par with her.

“Okay, so I’ll choke it down.”

She thought of seizing the opportunity to vanish back upstairs. For a reason she was reluctant to name, she suppressed the nudge of self-preservation and stayed.

Meghan hadn’t known she liked to flirt with danger... until Kyle showed up on her doorstep.

Now it seemed she not only wanted to skirt it, but wanted to experience, feel, see, taste it. She wondered if he’d be as apt a teacher as she pictured.

With unabashed interest, she watched him swallow another drink of tea, cataloging his frown. “There’s hot chocolate in the cupboard,” she said.

With eagerness, he stood and asked, “Which cupboard?”

She pointed, and he opened the door, choosing the box with miniature marshmallows and real sugar. Then he picked up Lexie, her clay angel, from the counter and carried both back to the table.

Lantern light danced as the air stirred, creating a secluded atmosphere. Maybe, she told herself as he invaded her space again, knees brushing beneath the table, she should have run while she had the chance.

“My Grandmother Agnes, or Grandma Aggie as I called her, used to collect angels,” Kyle said, taking another mug from the tree. This time, after his first taste, he gave a satisfied nod. He picked up the molded piece of clay with rosy cheeks and a somewhat battered halo.

It seemed ridiculously small in his big hands, yet he securely cradled the miniature in his palm. Safe. That’s how Lexie looked. And how Meghan felt, despite the myriad reasons she should feel anything but.

“Used to?” she asked softly.

“She died a few years ago.”

Meghan heard the undisguised layer of pain in his tone. “I’m sorry.”

“I am, too. She was someone very special.” He slid the angel onto the tabletop, his fingertip resting briefly on the dried flowers Lexie clutched. “Do you remember where you bought it? I’d love to get one to remember her.”

“I made it. She’s modeled after my grandmother, Lexie.”

“Impressive.”

His note of approval brought a flush of pleasure to her face.

He leaned back in his chair. Kyle either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his very real impact on her.

“Is it a hobby or a job?” he asked.

“I sell them to local stores.”

“You make them here?”

“I have a studio upstairs.”

He nodded. “I’d like to see it.”

Her mind momentarily blanked. No one, ever, had seen her studio. It was her sanctuary, her escape. She didn’t allow trespassers. “Sure,” she lied. Then she sought refuge behind the knowledge he wouldn’t be here long enough to ask again.

“Do you have any more for sale? Angels, that is.”

“Plenty.” She cringed, thinking of the extra inventory adorning the shelves in her studio. “I finished up a batch when you got here. I was supposed to deliver them to town this evening.”

“Maybe I could take some off your hands.”

Polite. The man was polite. Manners of a saint. The sex appeal of a sinner.

“Is business good year-round, or does it peak at Christmas?”

There was that word again, Christmas. She distrusted the word and his motives as much as if he’d just waved a sprig of mistletoe over her head.

Mistletoe.

Just the thought of standing with him, beneath mistletoe made her imagine the feel of his lips on hers.

She banished the very real, very unsettling image—or tried to.

“Meghan?”

“Christmas is the best, businesswise, but I’m working toward building distribution throughout the state. I hope that will make things less seasonal.”

“Why do you dislike it so much?”

She blinked. “Dislike what?”

“Christmas.” He laid the word between them. He met her gaze, captured it, compelled her to continue looking at him. “You wince every time I mention it.”

“I don’t,” she protested, cursing his powers of observation. No other person had so skillfully cut through her outer layer of defense and gone for the heart. She wrapped her hands around the cup of tea, trying to ward off the sudden chill.

“You do.”

Although Kyle appeared outwardly relaxed, she instinctively recognized the deception. His brows were drawn together in intense scrutiny, and his gaze never wavered from being fixed on her.

“You just did it again,” he stated flatly. “Flinched.”

She wondered what he did for a living, but knew whatever it was, he did it well. Single-minded determination was evident in his falsely relaxed posture, tone and questions. He might allow a brief respite, but he always returned to his point.

Meghan shuddered as she toyed with the image of what it might be like to be pursued by him with that awesome, single-minded determination.

He didn’t speak, apparently satisfied to wait on her response.

Kyle took a drink, then returned the mug to the table soundlessly—at least she assumed it to be soundlessly, since her thumping heart filled her ears. He wouldn’t waver. And unless she wanted him to return to the conversation over and over, she had to tell him, sharing the painful memories she’d tried to bury. Maybe if she told him, he’d leave her alone. “I don’t dislike Christmas itself.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the associations with Christmas that I can do without.”

He fingered Lexie’s fragile halo, which was made from dried flowers. Wind lashed the window with a howl, as if violently disagreeing with Meghan’s assessment of the holiday. She shuddered. Yet in the anonymity of the barely luminated night, she found courage. Even though her voice hardly cracked a decibel above a whisper, she confessed, “I’ve never had a real Christmas.”

Kyle’s brows arched. “Never had...?”

“My mother and father are...” She battled disloyalty, hating to say anything bad about anyone—particularly her parents. She settled for a half truth. “Absorbed in their own lives.”

Meghan swept the thick layers of hair back from her face, holding her hand on top of her head while memories dragged to the surface on stubborn heels. “I had nannies who resented not having time off to spend with their own families.”

“Just what kind of parents do you have?”

“Rich ones.”

She saw him take in the kitchen, with its faded vinyl, outdated appliances and seen-better-days curtains. Despite her best intentions, she gave a shallow smile. “I don’t accept their money. They send a check every year.” She waited a couple of beats, then added, “At—”

“Christmas.” This time, Kyle winced.

She dropped her hand and raised her shoulder in a short shrug. “I send it to the childrens’ shelter.”

“They don’t spend the holiday with you?” he asked incredulously.

“Aspen’s quite a drive from here.”

“So they live in the state?”

She shook her head. “They have places in France and Florida. They just fly to Colorado for two weeks each year. Great skiing. Even better parties.”

“And they don’t come to see you?”

“They did. Once.”

Kyle’s four-letter word was ferocious and forceful. She grimaced. “And Santa Claus?” he asked, leaning forward, adding to the intimacy, stealing rational thought.

“Didn’t have time to stop at my house.”

“Jeez, Meghan, what the hell kind of life is that for a kid?”

“At least it was a little better than the Christmases when I was left at boarding school.”

Kyle’s hands tightened into fists. “That’s not the way it is.” Each word was tight, leashed with control. “Not the way it should be.”

“Maybe not,” she said softly, the sharpness of his voice reverberating in the quiet. “But it’s the only way I’ve ever known. There was one night,” she said softly, “that my nanny found me asleep on the stairs, waiting for Santa Claus, for my parents to come home and tell me they loved me, waiting for some of the Christmas magic people talk about.”

In a painful whisper, she added, “It never happened.”

“I’m going to change that,” he vowed.

For the hesitant flash of a stolen moment in time, she believed him.

Reality rushed back in an unwelcome return. She hadn’t felt disappointment only once. She’d experienced the sting twice, as if the heavens weren’t satisfied with a single serving.

A mother’s inflicted pain had been nothing in comparison to the anguish caused by a man who’d stood in front of a preacher, looked in her eyes and swore he would love and cherish her, forever.

And that part was her secret.

Years later, Meghan still had trouble believing anyone could be as coldly merciless as Jack had been on their first holiday together.

Feeling a tear form, she rapidly blinked, refusing to give in again.

“You don’t believe me.”

Meghan might be a fool once, maybe even twice, but never three times. She met Kyle’s eyes, as bleak as his words. “No. I don’t. Christmas isn’t for everyone. It isn’t for me.”

In a fluid motion that belied his size, he stood, the chair toppling with a resounding crash. He demolished the distance between them, placing his hands on her shoulders and pulling her up to face him.

She tried to swallow, but there wasn’t enough moisture to make it possible. His masculine scent surrounded her, making her thinking clash simultaneously into thoughts of safety and danger. She feared for her own sanity and her ability to keep a foothold on the reality life had dealt her.

His look was purposeful.

Meghan trembled with anticipation.

When he drew her closer with firm pressure, she didn’t resist. Just for now she wanted to succumb to the thundering impulses inside.

She felt his hands in her hair, tangling in the sleep-tousled strands. Gently, he moved a hand down, skimming her neck, her spine, spreading across her upper back and holding her tight.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию 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.