Silhouette Christmas Stories Read online

  "I don't know. What do you think?" He had a strong hunch that marriage was a factor here. With a child's unerring instincts, Christy had zeroed in on the right problem; she just had the wrong angle.

  "I think she feels bad because I don't have a daddy," she said with a self-important little jiggle and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "I think she'd feel better if she married someone who liked kids, don't you?" She paused thoughtfully, then said, "Especially girls. Someone big, so we could both sit in his lap. And since we all have light hair, maybe someone with dark hair. Real dark," she clarified after taking a long look at Slade's near-black hair.

  "Anything else?" he asked blandly, wondering what she would do if he scooped her up and gave her a big hug.

  "It would be okay if he worked at home instead of going away every day," she assured him. "Mom does that already, so we're all kinda used to it. And he shouldn't be too old. How old are you?"

  "Thirty-four."

  "That's a good age." She hopped a few feet on her good leg, then stopped and looked at him with a puz-zled frown. "What's so funny? Why are you laughing?"

  "I have a weird sense of humor. Watch out. Don't trip over that tangle of weeds."

  Once inside the house, Christy opted to visit her grandmother and warned him again about going into the kitchen. He nodded and stayed where he was until she thumped her way up the stairs; then he turned and took a good look around.

  The house was decorated for Christmas.

  Somehow, he realized, the simple statement didn't adequately cover the situation. Candles, greenery, wall hangings and wreaths were just the beginning. Every flat surface was covered with miniature houses, carolers and snow scenes. The large coffee table had been converted into a creche, with squads of angels and shepherds. Several snowmen looked on with interest. The floor-to-ceiling tree, almost hidden beneath an avalanche of ornaments, took up one corner of the big living room.

  In the dining room he discovered more of the same. Brightly colored ornaments and candles formed a centerpiece for the table, and the walls were covered with garlands of pungent pine boughs tied back with enormous red velvet bows.

  Even the kitchen had been decorated. He cast a swift glance around and decided that the brightest ornament was sitting at the table scowling at a wobbly wall on the gingerbread house.

  "Who decorated the house?" he asked, pulling out a chair. "Kris?"

  Carroll jumped and looked up. "I didn't hear you knock," she said pointedly.

  "I came in with an escort. She warned me that you might not be in the mood for company."

  "You should have listened." She squeezed a blob of frosting onto the recalcitrant wall and attempted to anchor it. "Are you trying to tell me that the decorations are a bit overdone?"

  He shook his head. "Just trying to decide if it's a genetic or an environmental influence."

  "Try sentimental. We just can't seem to throw any of it away. Some of the stuff is Kris's, some my mother's, some mine. Now Christy's started stockpiling things."

  "Tell me about it. I think I've just been added to her collection."

  "That's nice," Carroll murmured, temporarily bracing the wall with a tin canister. "There, that should hold it until it dries." She looked up and blinked thoughtfully at his satisfied grin. "You've been what?"

  "You heard me." Amusement gleamed in his eyes. "She proposed."

  "One of these days I'm going to have to explain to her about age differences," she muttered, wondering if her bluff would work. When his grin broadened, she knew it hadn't.

  "She thinks I'm just the right age. For you."

  "Oh, God."

  "I didn't accept. Yet. I thought I'd better clear it with you first."

  "This isn't funny, Slade. You can't encourage her when she says things like that."

  "I don't think I could have stopped her. Besides, all she wants is a father."

  "All? All?" She glared at him. "Maybe you've missed one of the links here. In order for her to have a father, I have to have a husband."

  "No, I caught on to that right away."

  "Good for you." She jumped up and collected a handful of dishes. Taking them over to the sink, she said, "I'm all for encouraging dreams, everyone's dreams. But not this one. Not for her, and not for me. I'm not about to put our futures on the line again. She was too young to be hurt when her father walked away-"

  "You weren't," he said quietly.

  Carroll stiffened. Grateful for the small task, she scrubbed the few dishes carefully. It was a reprieve. When she finished, he was still there, still waiting. She turned around, stormy blue eyes meeting understanding gray ones. "No, I wasn't too young. I've already told you that. Later, I got mad, but I was one of the walking wounded for a long time. No one will ever do that to Christy. At least, not while I'm around to stop it."

  "Too much protection can turn people into emotional cripples," he commented. When she whirled around, outrage written all over her face, he held up a hand. "Wait a minute. Hear me out. I know you've been both mother and father to her, and it couldn't have been easy. You've done a wonderful job, one to be proud of, but you can't protect her from life. People go away, people die, and we all have to learn to deal with it. We can't refuse to trust and love because we're afraid that somewhere down the road we're going to be hurt. We may avoid some pain that way, but we miss out on a hell of a lot of pleasure."

  Carroll slapped the dish towel on the counter, her eyes raking over him angrily. "That all sounds very philosophical, but unless you've gone through it, you don't know what you're talking about. Have you ever been hurt like that? Has anyone ever walked out on you, betrayed your trust? Made you feel like a gullible fool?" She took a deep breath and glared at him.

  "Yeah."

  Blinking uncertainly, she moved nearer and perched on the corner of the table. "You're kidding, right?"

  "Nope. Five years ago." He gave her a level glance. "My partner walked off with our business, and my fiancee walked off with my partner."

  "What did you do?"

  He shrugged. "Got mad. Got bitter. Blamed them. Didn't trust a soul outside of my family. Cut off my social life and turned into a workaholic while I started over again."

  "I'm sorry, Slade." Her voice was subdued. "I was mad, or I wouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have asked."

  He shrugged again. "It's over and done with. Past history." He waited several moments, then shot her a swift grin. "You're not going to ask, are you?" He shook his head. "A stubborn woman. I'll tell you anyway. I recovered. Somewhere along the way, I realized that I shared some of the blame. I had been a rotten judge of character. I had known them both for a couple of years, but I didn't know them, if that makes any sense."

  She nodded.

  "'I have another partner now." He pushed himself away from the table. "Lecture's over," he said briskly. "Since we can't work, how about walking into town? Maybe I'll tell you how my search for a new fiancee is going."

  Chapter Five

  Carroll gestured toward the towering trees. "Once the lights go on, hoards of people will be driving in to see them. You can't imagine what it's like. Cars are bumper-to-bumper, snaking up one street and down the next. The traffic gets so bad most of us don't even bother using our cars, so if you have any shopping to do, you'd better hop to it." Her voice was breathless as they followed the winding road into town. "We always stock up ahead of time, as much as we can. All the store owners love the crowds, of course, and the gas station leases a few more tow trucks, because cars overheat and have to be hauled away."

  It wasn't the altitude that had her gasping for air, nor was it the exercise. She was accustomed to both. It was just that she had talked, without stopping, for the fifteen minutes it had taken to walk from the house to the center of town. Babbling was more like it, she amended silently. She had covered the weather: brisk and getting cooler every day; Kris's prediction of snow: unlikely; the town: an ideal place to raise children but not big on social life; Christy's belief in the exi
stence of Santa Claus: teetering; and Slade's lack of holiday decorations: she had some she would loan him. Innocuous fare, admittedly, but better than the alternative. She didn't want to hear about his fian-cée-past: the idiot; present: nonexistent; or future: chicken!

  Carroll took a second to give herself a mental pat on the back. Her effort had been heroic, to say the least. It wasn't easy to be bright and chatty when your body was simmering with tension and-yes, damn it-a betraying sense of anticipation. If they gave medals for performance under racking circumstances, she deserved one. Maybe two.

  Because Slade Ryan was nothing but pure temptation.

  And she was very susceptible.

  His crisp black hair was the kind that made her fingertips tingle. And for a woman who professed to be disinterested in men, she was alarmingly distracted by him. No, having Slade around for the past several weeks had proven one thing: she wasn't immune to that old devil, sex. When he was near, she almost forgot about a father who had walked away with no apparent regret, followed by a husband who had done the same. Almost, but not quite.

  It wasn't that she thought he was lying; Slade seemed to be an honorable man, but she hadn't known him long enough to be certain. At any rate, if he made a commitment, he seemed to be the type who would honor it. He talked about marriage, and he probably meant it. Now. But, regardless of his present intentions, he could always change his mind. People did. Not just men, she thought, being fair: people.

  And on that fragile foundation she was supposed to build a future? Trust her own future-and her daughter's-to something so uncertain? No, thank you. Slade Ryan might be the sexiest man to come down the pike in… all right, admit it, her entire life, but sexy didn't count when the chips were down. It helped, but what really counted was staying power.

  Carroll wasn't a gambler. She never hid the Fact that risk-taking wasn't high on her list of priorities. She was far too practical. Too level-headed. Not very exciting qualities, she was quick to admit, but somebody in her family had to have them. At the age of twelve she had learned that both Kris and Noel were blithely indifferent to financial matters. If things were left to them, they would stuff bills and paychecks in an old box and expect some metaphysical happening to straighten out the ensuing mess. That was when she had studied a book about budgeting and learned to write checks and reconcile a bank account. As she remembered, Noel and Kris had given loud cries of joy, signed checks when requested, and otherwise washed their hands of the entire situation.

  Good old steady, Carroll. She wasn't rash or impulsive. Her only legacy from Kris and Noel was her boundless optimism, the belief that things almost always happened for the best. Running her own business had merely emphasized the merits of planning ahead, being organized and adhering to a schedule. Dull, she thought glumly. Deadly dull. Whatever had made a man like Slade even look at her, much less propose marriage? She blinked. Well, he hadn't exactly proposed. What he'd done was casually drop the idea right in the middle of their conversation.

  Whatever. The point was, dull or not, she was still tempted. And the sad part was, if she told her family what he wanted, she wouldn't get a bit of sympathy. Kris had taken to him like a long-lost son and would consider her insane for even hesitating. Noel wouldn't care one way or another, as long as Slade didn't interfere with her painting. And Christy? Her daughter considered him prime father material. She had taken one look at Slade and fallen in love.

  And her own reaction? Carroll admitted that she was terrified. She had forgotten what it was like to have a man around, especially one who allowed his steamy glances to reveal just how much he wanted her. It had been a long time since her body had hummed with pleasure when a man looked at her. It was scary. It was exhilarating. And very frustrating. And now, if she said no, he would walk out of her life. Of course, if she said yes, he might do the same thing-just a bit further down the road.

  Slade cleared his throat. "Hello? Are you in there?"

  "Hmm?" She glanced up and flushed when she met his intrigued gaze. "Sorry. What did you say?"

  "How hard do you think it will hit Kris when he realizes that all those lights aren't going to work?" he repeated patiently.

  She stared at him. "They can't not work. He's fussed over these plans for years, ever since Christy was a baby, and he's promised that this is the year they all go on. Look over there." She waved in the direction of the park they were passing. "There are a couple of hundred trees in there, and they all have lights. Animated scenes run all the way through the place. He designed every one of them. He cut them, painted them and hooked up all the mechanical stuff in his workshop. And look at all the decorations on the homes." She shook her head. "No, the question isn't how will he take it, the question is how to make it work."

  Slade swore softly. "It's not the houses that I'm concerned about. They're each capable of supporting their own lights. It's all this other stuff-the park, the trees along every road, even the streetlights! This is an old town, Carroll. When they set up shop, they weren't anticipating power demands like this. There is no way it can work." He didn't sound happy, but he spoke with flat assurance.

  "Can't you do something?" Carroll winced at the outright pleading in her voice.

  "I'm not a miracle worker," he told her with an exasperated sigh. "He'll be okay with the first batch of lights, and if he follows my advice and does some rewiring, he'll even make the second. But not the third. His plans for Christmas Eve are nothing but a dream."

  Carroll couldn't think of a single thing to say except that she believed in dreams, that without them the world would be a bleak place. Since the thought was optimistic but not very helpful, she kept it to herself, aimlessly kicking her way through a pile of maple leaves while she mulled things over. At first she didn't hear the lingering whistle. It was a typical appreciative male whistle, the kind that women all over the world pretended to ignore.

  "Hey, Blondie, how about a few fast games later?"

  Carroll's welcoming smile faded when Slade turned his head slowly, his narrowed eyes zeroing in on three grinning young men. He took a deep breath and seemed to grow about a foot. He was angry, she realized, staring at the muscle flexing in his jaw. No, what he was was furious!

  "Slade! Wait a minute," she whispered urgently, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, stunned by his reaction. "They're friends, Slade. Friends. They're also just kids-homesick kids, at that. They're from Camp Pendleton." She waved in the direction of the massive U.S. Marine camp less than fifty miles away. "They were part of the gang who helped Kris put up the lights."

  "What does he mean, games!" He didn't take his narrowed eyes off the three, who were loping toward them with the enthusiasm of half-grown pups.

  "Checkers," she said hastily, still alarmed by the tension emanating from his lean frame. "After they finished with the lights, the kids all came to the house for pizza, and I played checkers with the redhead."

  "The one with the big mouth?" he said grimly.

  "Slade, for heaven's sake! He was only teasing. He's a nice boy. They're all nice," she added firmly.

  "Hey, Carroll, how's Kris doing? When do we get to see these famous lights?" They drew to a halt, glanced curiously at the silent man beside her, then turned back to her, basking in the warmth of her smile.

  "The first batch goes on tomorrow night." She held up her hand to stop them and said, "Slade, I want you to meet Jim, Mac and Red. Kris couldn't have managed the lights without them. Guys, this is Slade Ryan, my new neighbor."

  As soon as the four men had made appropriate introductory noises, Red turned back to Carroll. "We've been talking about this-" he gestured toward a bedecked row of trees "-and we figure Kris is going to have a lot of trouble with all this stuff."

  The other two chimed in.

  "We're ETs at Pendleton," Jim told Slade. "Electronic technicians."

  Mac shot Carroll a worried look. "We were talking to one of our instructors and telling him about the setup here. He says it's never going to work."

>   Noel was in the kitchen, industriously crushing graham crackers with a rolling pin, when they walked in. She was wearing narrow-legged jeans and a large paint-speckled flannel shirt, and looked almost as young as her daughter.

  Slade glanced at the pyramidlike mounds of golden crumbs resting on every flat surface in the room. "Starting your own bakery?" he asked pleasantly, deciding to give it one more try. He had yet to have a conversation with Noel that actually resembled a conversation.

  She looked up from her task, her unfocused gaze settling on the wall beyond him. "My log looks like a crocodile."

  "You've got enough crumbs here to make a dozen tortes," he persevered, slanting a mystified look at Carroll.

  "A crocodile with rigor mortis." Noel shook more crackers from the box and added them to the crumbs on the large piece of foil. She attacked them so briskly that her gray bangs bounced on her forehead and her long braid swung over her shoulder and settled between her breasts.

  Slade poured himself a cup of coffee and tried again. "Christy showed me your studio the other day."

  "It looks like a Florida swamp."

  "It didn't look that bad," Slade soothed, pushing his chair away from the spraying crumbs. "Not nearly as bad as my place gets when I'm in the middle of a project."

  Carroll made a choking sound behind him.

  Noel stopped abusing the crumbs and reached for a large glass bowl. She dropped in two cubes of butter and dumped sugar into a large plastic measuring cup. When she poured it into the bowl, her eyes narrowed as the butter gradually disappeared. "Snow," she murmured thoughtfully. "That could be it." She stared down into the bowl. "Yes, that's definitely it. I'll cover the damned alligator with an avalanche." She tossed the measuring cup aside and trotted out of the room.

  "Was it something I said?" Slade asked wryly, watching her disappear through the door.