Christmas With A Stranger_Forbidden Read online

  He was waiting for her outside in the hall, illuminated by a beam of light spilling from his room. He wore a knee-length navy terry-cloth robe which was tied loosely at the waist, and showed a great deal of strong masculine chest from the top and equally strong, masculine calves from the bottom. Try though she might, Jessica couldn’t stop herself from staring.

  “Hey,” he said, his husky voice washing over her, drifting over her bare shoulders and down between her breasts, “are you sick or something?”

  Was she? Had she been infected by some strange virus, and did that account for her unmanageable state of mind? “I was thirsty,” she mumbled, refusing to meet his glance.

  “You look flushed, as if you might be coming down with something.” He flung out one hand in a gesture of unmistakable resentment. “Hell, that’s the last thing I need.”

  “I am not ill,” Jessica said firmly.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if you were,” he said, taking in the thin straps that held up the flimsy fabric of her nightgown. “Don’t you own any decent winter clothing?”

  “If by that you mean flannelette pyjamas, no.” She threw a glance at him and without considering the wisdom of her words added, “And you’re a fine one to talk. I haven’t seen so much exposed skin on a man since dear knows when!”

  He looked down and gave the terry-cloth robe a twitch to make sure he was decent, a move that left her wondering if he was stark naked underneath.

  He knew, as surely as if she’d voiced her curiosity aloud. “Don’t hold your breath, Miss Simms,” he drawled. “You’ve seen all I intend to show.”

  Evil creature! How could she ever have thought him attractive?

  Jessica snapped her jaws together and swung away, intending to put the solid wood of her bedroom door between him and her quickly, before her composure crumbled completely. She hadn’t gone two steps, however, when, with the eerie sound of a ghost keening to be free, a mournful howl filled the house, its source so close that it seemed to emanate from the very wall in front of her.

  Seasoned students at the school were fond of tormenting homesick newcomers with tales of spooks haunting the halls of the junior dormitory. Pragmatist that she was, Jessica always successfully nipped such ideas in the bud, but, just then, just for a moment, her grip on reality slipped and left her at the mercy of the most bizarre foolishness. Just for as long as it took her to spring back with a startled gasp and come up against Morgan Kincaid’s solid, underclothed frame.

  At that, everything fled her mind except for the fact that, all at once, she was on the brink of realizing her earlier fantasy. She could feel the sculpted muscle of his chest at her shoulder blades, his hand in the small of her back, his breath flowing warmly over the nape of her neck.

  But the sad fact was, it was not magical at all.

  He didn’t pull her protectively close, he moved her away with ill-concealed exasperation. “For crying out loud, it’s just the wind in the chimney,” he said, his voice about as chill as the night outside. “It means the weather’s swung around and is blowing in from the north-east again and that we’re in for another storm.”

  “Really.” She tugged the straps of her nightgown firmly into place and, with a haughty little toss of her head meant to intimate that she’d found the physical contact every bit as disagreeable as he had, increased the distance between him and her. “Well, I certainly hope that won’t delay my departure tomorrow.”

  “So do I,” he muttered on a heartfelt sigh, before he disappeared into his room. “So do I!”

  The next morning, Jessica awoke to find her room flooded with reflected brilliance and the sort of hush that cushioned a world buried in snow. Drifts lay halfway up the window and any trace of a road up to the house had been completely obliterated. Above the trees a pewter sky promised more of the same punishment, although the wind appeared to have died. She didn’t need anyone to tell her she wouldn’t be going anywhere today.

  Morgan Kincaid had left a note propped up on the kitchen table. “Gone out to take care of the animals. Help yourself to breakfast and keep the fire and coffee pot going. Be back in a couple of hours.”

  It was barely nine o’clock. Jessica discovered that the coffee in the pot too closely resembled used motor oil to warrant human consumption and, while she waited for a fresh pot to brew, took a mandarin orange from the bowl on the Welsh dresser and went on a tour of the rest of the main floor of the house.

  In light of the rather spartan decor in the bedrooms, she didn’t expect too much and was pleasantly surprised to find, to the right of the stairs, a living room some twenty-five feet long by about fifteen feet wide, furnished in faded rose damask.

  A massive stone-faced fireplace flanked by built-in bookcases occupied center place on the east wall. Leaded windows looked out on the valley to the south and the steep hill leading up to the cliffs to the north. Painted molding crowned the walls and framed the glass doors leading to a formal dining room.

  Clearly, however, neither room had been used in quite some time. The air was flat and stale. A film of dust covered the occasional tables and the top of the oldfashioned pump organ under the south windows in the living room.

  Although the hearth had been swept clean, a spider had woven an intricate pattern across one corner of the chimney opening and cobwebs swayed from the silk shades of various lamps.

  In some ways, the dining room had fared no better. Crystal stemware dulled by dust waited at one end of the table. The hearth contained the dead ashes of a fire and drippings of wax had overflowed the tarnished silver candelabra to pool on the fine oak sideboard, as though dinner guests either had upped and left before the start of the meal or simply not shown up at all.

  A terrible waste, Jessica thought, popping the last segment of mandarin orange in her mouth and retracing her steps. Rooms like these ought to be used instead of being left to molder. If she were mistress of this house, she’d have flowering plants on the mantelpiece, on the carved walnut chest behind the sofa, on top of the organ and in the middle of the dining table. Scarlet poinsettias, snowy cyclamen, rosy pink azaleas. And sprigs of holly tucked into graceful swags of evergreen over the doorway and windows.

  The muffled tramp of boots on the back porch alerted her to Morgan Kincaid’s return. By the time she’d made her way back to the kitchen, he and Clancy Roper had helped themselves to the better part of the fresh pot of coffee and were warming their backsides at the stove.

  “Good afternoon,” Morgan declared sunnily, glancing pointedly at the clock which showed twenty past nine.

  Jessica supposed he was trying to be funny and had to admit she was relieved. In view of his parting words the night before, humor, however feeble, was the last thing she expected from him.

  “It’s not quite that late, surely?” she said, and wished she didn’t always have to sound so much like a schoolmarm.

  “Day’s half over,” Clancy Roper informed her, depleting the coffee supply again. “If we slept in till all hours like you, woman, nothing’d ever get done right around here.”

  He was as difficult an individual as Morgan Kincaid, without the latter’s good looks or unexpected bursts of charm to redeem him. “I dare say if I lived here and had chores to do I’d have to agree with you,” she said. “But since I don’t your point is scarcely relevant, is it?”

  “Long as you’re here, you’ve got chores.” He jerked his head at the window. “See that sky out there? Loaded, it is. With snow,” he added, as if she were too mentally defective to be able to figure out the simplest facts for herself. “And it’ll be coming down before much longer. We ain’t got time to be fixin’ meals, missy, nor keeping fires goin’. We got work to do. Men’s work.”

  Morgan Kincaid filled another mug with what was left of the coffee and handed it to her with a smile. “What Clancy’s trying to tell you, in his uniquely subtle way, is that taking care of the horses is our first priority so...”

  That smile undid her, seducing her so potently th
at she’d probably have gone out in her flimsy boots and unsuitable clothes and mucked out the stables for him if he’d asked her to. “So you’d like me to take over in here,” she finished for him.

  His smile deepened to reveal dimples of all things, one on each side of his mouth. “We’d appreciate it, Jessica.” He glanced regretfully at the lowering sky beyond the window. “Especially since there’s no way I can get you out of here today. The road is impassable, as I’m sure you must realize.”

  “I understand that.” She shrugged her acceptance of what was patently obvious to the most untutored eye. “But I’d like to phone the hospital and let my sister know.”

  “Can’t. All the lines are down,” Clancy said, with manifest satisfaction at seeing her thwarted yet again. “If it weren’t for the emergency generator, you’d be trimming oil lamps come sunset.”

  Morgan shot her a commiserating look. “He’s right. I wish I could tell you the line crew will be out to fix the phone before tonight but it’s more likely to be several days.”

  “Surely it’s only a matter of joining together a few wires. Isn’t that something you could do?”

  “If I knew where to start looking, yes, probably. But we’re talking about ten miles or more of line, Jessica, and if I could follow that I could just as easily get you down to the main highway.”

  “Reckon we’ve got ourselves a housekeeper over Christmas, Morgan.” Clancy cackled with malicious delight. “Know how to pluck and dress a turkey, woman?”

  “No,” Jessica snapped. “So unless you do, Mr. Roper, it’ll be cheese sandwiches for dinner on Christmas Day.”

  Stifling a grin, Morgan said, “Quit needling her, Clancy, and count your blessings.”

  Jessica stared at him. “Count your blessings?” she echoed. “Last night, the only blessing you were hoping for was my speedy exit from your life. Would you mind telling me what’s happened—apart from a devastating snow storm—to bring on this burst of seasonal goodwill?”

  He and Clancy Roper exchanged glances loaded with mysterious significance. Finally, he said smoothly, “You’re not the only one inconvenienced by the weather. The Wrights, a couple from the other side of Sentinel Pass, come up here three times a week as a rule. Ted lends a hand around the stables and Betty does a bit of housekeeping.”

  A very little bit, Jessica concluded, considering what she’d so far observed about the house. At best, the woman swiped a damp cloth over the most visible spots, but clearly didn’t exert herself to do a more thorough cleaning.

  “Obviously they’re not going to make it up here today, any more than you’re going to get to Whistling Valley.” Morgan said. “I know you’re worried about your sister, but you said yourself she’s in good hands and doing well.”

  He stopped and smiled again, more winningly than ever, then went on persuasively, “So if you’re willing to take over in the house—?”

  “And what if I break some hallowed tradition?” Jessica cut in. “Or touch something sacred?”

  Furiously, Clancy banged his coffee cup down on the table, slopping its contents all over everything. “See what you’ve gone and started, Morgan?”

  Another glance passed between the two men, then Morgan said, “Let it go, pal. We can afford to relax for the next couple of days.”

  Clancy seemed tempted to argue but something in Morgan’s expression deterred him. “As you say,” he muttered sullenly. “At least she knows how to cook.”

  “So,” Morgan said, swinging his glance back to Jessica, “what about it? We might as well all try to get along.”

  “True.” Jessica looked around the kitchen, at Clancy’s moldy old felt stetson parked on the table and dripping melted snow among the remains of the breakfast dishes, at the bacon grease congealing in the frying pan on the counter next to the sink. “But if you think I’m going to be a lackey to your slovenly habits for the next couple of days, think again.”

  She flung out her hand in a gesture of disgust that encompassed the entire kitchen. “I’m not used to living in a pig sty, and I refuse to do so when there’s no need.”

  “As long as there’s livestock needs tendin’ to,” Clancy said, “dishes sittin’ in the sink ain’t exactly a priority.”

  “I appreciate that and I’m more than happy to pull my weight around the house, but you...” Jessica fixed him with the same determined look she afforded difficult students “...you will mend your ways and show a little appreciation. I will clean and cook and do my best to bring a little Christmas spirit into this house, but I cannot—and will not—do it alone.”

  Morgan looked uneasy. “Exactly what is it you’d like us to do?”

  “Well, for a start, I see no reason for us to be falling all over one another in the kitchen when there’s a perfectly lovely room going to waste down the hall. Two rooms, in fact, and neither looks as if anyone’s set foot in it in months. So when you come in for lunch I’d like you to light fires in the hearths to take the chill out of the air, and I’ll serve the evening meal in the dining room.”

  “I gather you’ve taken a grand tour of the main floor,” Morgan observed dryly.

  “Hah!” Clancy crowed. “Snoopin’s what she’s been doin’, Morgan. Didn’t I tell you she would?”

  “And you’ll dress for dinner,” Jessica went on, unfazed by the interruptions, “in something other than the blue jeans you’ve apparently been sleeping in for the last week, Mr. Roper. It is almost Christmas, after all.”

  “Dress for dinner because it’s Christmas?” Clancy practically spluttered with rage. “Confound it, woman, I’m not—”

  She planted her fists on her hips. “Scrooge said more or less the same thing much more eloquently a long time ago, Mr. Roper, so spare me your version of the old ‘Bah, humbug’. It’s my way or bread and cheese. Take it or leave it.”

  “We’ll take it,” Morgan said hurriedly. “After lunch, we’ll set up the tree in the living room and you can go to it. Make the place as festive as you like and we’ll put on our party manners. Now grab your hat, Clancy, and let’s get that mare settled before we have to dig our way from here to the stables.”

  He was almost out of the door when he suddenly turned back. “Oh, and by the way, stay inside the house, Jessica. It’s safer.”

  “Safer?” What an odd choice of word. “Safer how?”

  He paused fractionally and if she hadn’t already learned from experience that he was one of the most forthright men she’d ever met she’d have thought he was concocting a lie. “You could get frostbite,” he said. “In this weather it can happen in a matter of minutes, especially to someone dressed so inadequately.”

  Honestly, she thought, watching from the window above the sink as the men and dogs made their way back to the stables, the way Morgan acted at times, one would have thought he had next-door neighbors watching from behind starched lace curtains and jumping to all the wrong conclusions about the woman he’d brought into his home.

  As for his obsession with the weather and her clothes, it bordered on preposterous.

  “You’ll be digging yourself out of more than snow at this rate,” Clancy predicted gloomily as they bent into the wind and slogged toward the stables. “I’m tellin’ you, Morgan, you keep givin’ in to that woman and findin’ reasons not to get rid of her, and before you know it you’ll be up to your neck in more trouble than even you can handle.”

  Morgan squinted at the sky. “It’s out of my hands, at least for the time being. You don’t need me to tell you there’s no way to send her on her way until the weather lets up. For now, she’s as safe here as anywhere.”

  “T’ain’t just her safety I’m worryin’ about, Morgan, it’s yours as well. You get a certain hungry look about you whenever you clap eyes on her and it gives me the willies. Ain’t you learned your lesson yet where fancy city women are concerned? Heck, if she thinks the way you live up here ain’t squeaky clean, what do you reckon she’d have to say about the muck you deal with down in the city? We
ll, I’ll tell you,” Clancy continued, barely stopping to draw breath. “She’d take a hike, just like the other one did, and what’s that gonna leave you with, Morgan, apart from a cartload of heartache you don’t need?”

  “Not that I don’t appreciate your concern, old friend,” Morgan remarked, “but in this case it’s misdirected. I’ve already told you, Jessica Simms is no more my type than she’s yours and it’ll be a cold day in hell before I get myself hooked up with someone like her.”

  They were fine words, uttered with enough conviction to silence Clancy, and Morgan might have believed them himself if he hadn’t suddenly remembered how she’d looked on the landing the night before. Who’d have expected she’d favor silk nightwear so translucent that if the light had been shining from behind her, instead of in front, there’d be little left to his imagination regarding her surprisingly elegant, fine-boned body?

  As for his physical response at finding her suddenly pressed up against him, that didn’t mean a damned thing beyond the fact that he functioned exactly as any normal man would under the circumstances. Of far greater import was his knowledge that the circumstances were not all that they seemed. Fraught with potential danger, they were about as far from normal as they could get, and that was something he couldn’t afford to forget.

  Clancy surveyed him quietly for a moment then switched to the subject that was really preying on their minds. “How far you reckon Parrish’ll get before they catch him?”

  “Depends how much ground he covered before the weather set in.” Morgan glanced up at the sky. “Wherever he is now is where he’ll be staying until things let up.”

  “Could be he’ll freeze to death and save us all a load of trouble.”

  “Unlikely. Parrish is no fool, Clancy, and it would be a mistake to underestimate him. I made a couple of calls last night and from what I gathered his was no spur-of the-moment run for freedom; it was something he’d planned to the last detail. You can be sure he’d have taken all eventualities into account, including the weather.”