The Magical Christmas Cat

  d times a day. It made him feel dismissed, humiliated. So he immediately reacted. "What, you think I swiped your damn cat or something?"

  "That certainly seems more plausible than my cat somehow opening my front door and your car door—and closing both again, I might add—in the five minutes you and I sat in my kitchen. It's ridiculous."

  "So is the idea that I would steal your cat, and then bring her right back. What kind of moronic theft is that?" Ian's indignation rose. What, like he'd steal a freakin' cat? "And why would I want your cat anyway?"

  "I have no idea. Nor do I know why your client wants my house. But neither of you can have either."

  She started to close the door on him yet again, but Ian stuck his palm out and held it open. Bree tried to push harder, but he was stronger. He was not a cat thief. "I didn't take your cat. I don't want your cat." Really. He didn't.

  "What do you want?" she asked acidly.

  "You," Ian said. Hell, he figured he hadn't risen to success from poverty based on being passive. He had always been aggressive in going after what he wanted, and Bree shouldn't be any different.

  "Excuse me?" She blinked, looking more shocked than outraged.

  Ian met her gaze. "I am attracted to you, and I'm hoping you'll agree to go to dinner with me."

  There was a long pause, during which Ian was aware that he was still standing on the front porch and his nuts were going numb while she stared at him, and he was just about resigned to rejection when Bree nodded.

  "Okay."

  "Okay?" Ian was shocked into parroting her, but he rallied. "Okay, great. Fabulous. I'm only in town for a few more days, so are you busy tonight?"

  "Tonight would work."

  Said she with zero enthusiasm. Very ego-boosting. But she had agreed to dinner, so he was going to roll with it. "Let me have your number . . . I'll make some reservations and call you." Ian pulled out his cell phone.

  Bree gave a smile. "You don't really need reservations in Cuttersville."

  But she gave him her number anyway, reciting it quickly, testing the speed of Ian's typing.

  "I'd take your number, but my phone is upstairs."

  "I'll call it," he said. "So it's in your phone." He hit send for the number she had just given him and let it ring until the voice mail picked up. He smiled at her as he spoke into his phone. "Hi, this is Ian Carrington calling for Bree Murphy to see if we can change our dinner plans to a late lunch. I'd rather not wait to see you."

  It was a risk, throwing his interest so clearly out there, and he watched her reaction closely, but Bree didn't balk. She just raised an eyebrow. He continued, "So let me know what you think, and I look forward to hearing from you." He hung up his phone.

  "You don't have a lot of patience, do you?" she asked, still holding her cat. It didn't sound like a censure, just curiosity.

  "No, I suppose not. I want what I want."

  And he wanted her. The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

  Finally, Bree gave an exasperated sigh. "Would you get into the house? We're letting out all the heat while you come on strong."

  Ian stepped forward. "Too strong?"

  Bree shut the door behind him. "I haven't decided yet if I'm appalled or if I like it. I'll let you know."

  Ian laughed. "Well, that's honest."

  She didn't laugh with him, just stared searchingly at him. "Why did you ask me out? I'm not your type at all."

  "You're not like women I usually date, that's true. But that doesn't mean I can't look at you and think you're beautiful . . . it doesn't mean I can't look at you and be intrigued as to who you are." And maybe there was logic to his attraction after all. It was the fascination of someone who lived so differently from him, who embraced her different perspective of the universe and didn't apologize for it. He wanted to learn more about her, maybe even craved the sense of "realness" that she offered.

  "I have no idea what to say to that," she said. "I want to say something witty and flirtatious, but that's not really me."

  "What are you then?"

  "Brutally honest. I say whatever the hell I'm thinking."

  "Nothing wrong with that." Ian watched Bree standing in the hallway with her cat still tightly held in her arms. "What are you thinking now?" This was uncharted territory for him. It was 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, and he barely knew Bree at all. He had no idea where to go from there, and he didn't think she would appreciate it if he did what he really wanted to do, which was kiss her.

  She shrugged. "I'm actually desperately wishing I had brushed my teeth after I ate a cottage-cheese snack because I have a feeling you're going to kiss me at some point before you leave."

  Ian laughed. "I'd certainly like to. And a little cottage cheese won't stop me." He put his hand on the small of her back, wanting to be closer to her. "But why don't you give me a tour of the house? I'd really love to see the whole place, and you can make a quick pit stop for your toothbrush if it will make you feel better."

  Bree glanced up at him over her shoulder, her eyes dark and mysterious under her long lashes. "This is a very strange and random date."

  "Is it freaking you out?"

  "Not particularly."

  "Well, it is me," he told her truthfully. "This isn't the way I usually initiate a relationship."

  "Then why are you doing it?" she asked.

  Bree had put the cat down finally, and she was facing him. Her hair was sliding across her cheek and sticking to her moist, crimson lips. Ian reached out and pulled the hair free and tucked it behind her ear, reveling in the satin slide across his fingertips. It had been a while since he had touched a woman, and there was a paradoxical quality to Bree that he loved. She was strong and bold, yet wonderfully feminine and vulnerable at the same time.

  "Because I can't stop myself." And he ignored the fact that he had just told her she could sneak off and brush her teeth before a kiss, and he went for one anyway. A hand on the back of her neck, Ian leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, lightly. They fit together well, comfortably, and he felt her acquiescence, felt her lean toward him to meet his mouth.

  Ian forced himself to keep it short, to just linger for a fleeting moment, then pull back. He didn't want to go any faster than he already was and have her balk on him. Bree gave a delicious sigh when he stepped away from her, her eyes dark and mysterious, her lips shiny. Wiping away the lip gloss that had transferred from her lips to his, Ian said, "I'm ready for my tour of the house. Starting with . . ."

  Her eyebrows rose in censure as if she clearly expected him to say the bedroom.

  "The living room. I'd like to see the fireplace." He smiled broadly.

  They'd get to the bedroom eventually.

  Bree watched Ian carefully. She wasn't used to men like him at all. Her ex-boyfriends had all been profuse in their attentions and loud about their neediness. None had been smooth or charming. Ian was both, and she was having trouble seeing what was coming around the corner with him. He kept startling her, and it was starting to annoy her that she constantly felt off-kilter, out of control. The advantage to the men in her past had been that she had always been the strong one, not vice versa. Ian and she were more evenly matched, and she didn't know quite what to do with it.

  So she sucked in a breath, gathered her resolve—because she was now determined to have sex with Ian Carrington on her own terms—and said, "Sure. I assumed the fireplace was the first thing you'd want to see."

  He laughed as he followed her, Akasha trotting along beside him.

  So much for feline loyalty. It obviously didn't exist because Akasha, who to that point had never tolerated a man in her house, was clearly smitten with Ian.

  Bree stopped just inside the main living area on the first floor, the room her grandmother had always referred to as the parlor. It was a large room, with two stained-glass windows and a fireplace with a very ornate carved mantel from which Abby had hung three sprigs of mistletoe. Bree said, "The house was built in 1888. All the woodwork is o
riginal, and so is the fireplace, though we can't burn wood in it. It's not up to code."

  Though she had to admit she burned her Yule log there every Winter Solstice and so far no one had seemed to notice, and she hadn't burned the house down. But she wasn't really willing to take a chance on a roaring fire.

  Ian had wandered into the middle of the room and stopped, turning a full 360 slowly. He looked puzzled, and Bree waited for a response, content just to look at him. He was so freaking good-looking, oozing confidence and success. His hair was very short yet somehow still managed to convey a sense of style, the front sticking up slightly. He was dressed more casually than the day before, his jeans distressed in all the right places, his shoes well-worn leather. He still had his coat on, but she could see his wine-colored button-up shirt with a subtle stripe, untucked, casual, but not the slightest bit sloppy. Bree had never been to Chicago, but she could picture him there, living in a high-rise apartment, walking down busy streets at a fast clip, talking on his cell phone.

  "Wow," he said.

  "Wow what?" The room wasn't that exciting. Bree was well aware the furniture was old and worn and that the overcast December sky lent a gloomy aspect to the room despite its being midafternoon.

  "I'm having a serious case of deja vu." Ian moved to the fireplace and fingered one of the mistletoe bunches hanging there.

  Bree fought the urge to smack his hand away. Mistletoe, with all its sexual implications, was not what either of them needed at the moment. Or maybe it was.

  "I don't believe in deja vu," she said. "I think it's really that our sixth sense sometimes glimpses pieces of our future, then when we see them in actuality we recognize them as familiar, as if they're part of the past. But they're really our recognition of what our subconscious already told us was going to occur."

  She expected him to disagree, since Ian didn't seem like he believed in anything but the present, but he surprised her.

  "That's an interesting theory. But for me, this is deja vu because I've seen this room in a dream. Right down to the three sprigs of mistletoe over this very fireplace mantel." He touched the grapevines that had been carved in the wood. "These grapevines. It's unreal how clearly I saw it all."

  Bree sucked in her breath. "You saw this room in a dream? With mistletoe?" What the hell did that mean?

  "Yes." Ian turned and looked at her, and those dark eyes studied her. "I don't believe in anything but logic, but I can't explain this. I've been dreaming about this room, not once, not twice, but over and over."

  "For how long?"

  "A year. And it always looked just like this, decorated for Christmas. The tree, the mistletoe."

  A shiver raced up Bree's spine. It had been a year since they had met. "We just hung the mistletoe yesterday."

  "That's really weird," he said, his voice thoughtful, his mouth turning down in a frown. He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the sofa, moving around the room, studying all angles, all objects.

  It was clear he wanted an explanation, and Bree had none to give him. "What happens in the dreams?"

  But Ian just shook his head. "It's personal."

  Whatever the hell that meant.

  His hand was on an ornament on her tree, an innocuous sparrow that had no particular meaning to Bree other than it was meant to represent the power of nature in the smallest things, and he pulled it forward, stroking the faux feathers. Recognition hit Bree in a powerful wave, and she couldn't prevent a gasp from escaping her mouth

  "Ohmigod," she whispered.

  "What?" He glanced back at her.

  Now it was her turn to shake her head. She couldn't say it out loud. She couldn't admit that this was in fact her recurring dream as well, that it always started with the back of a man's head bent over her Christmas tree. That he always turned, his face in shadow so she couldn't see his features, and he came over to her and did delicious things to her body. That he shattered her with orgasm after orgasm, and she always woke up frustrated and aching with want for the reality of her dream.

  "This is an unusual tree," he said, touching a pinecone ornament. "It's very natural-looking. I like it."

  "It's a family tradition, based on witchcraft. You fill the tree with ornaments that appreciate nature, but also with ornaments that represent all your hopes and aspirations for the upcoming year. You fill it with symbols of that which you want to bring into your life." Bree swallowed hard, still reeling from the realization that it had in fact been Ian that she had been dreaming about so intensely. It had to be him. He was doing just what the man in her dreams did, and her body was already poised, anticipating a touch.

  He murmured, "Really? That's very cool. I like that. What does this one mean?"

  Bree squinted to focus, not really caring about conversation but striving to find normalcy in the situation. Ian was pointing to a diploma ornament.

  "That's Abby's. She's graduating this year and hopefully heading off to college. She's incredibly book smart and I think she'll do well in college."

  "And this one?" Ian fingered a baby carriage.

  Bree touched her throat, a sudden tightness forcing her to breathe deeply. "That one's Charlotte's. She and Will would like to have a baby."

  "I hope they're successful."

  "Thank you. Me, too. They'll be fabulous parents."

  Akasha came over to Bree and rubbed against her leg, dropping something from her mouth. Bree bent over absently and picked it up, unnerved by the surreal quality of being there with Ian, knowing that in her dreams she had felt him inside her, known the slide of his tongue over her most intimate places. It wasn't until she was standing again that she realized she had retrieved the battered mistletoe that Akasha had been dragging around.

  Of course.

  Ian turned to her. "Which ornament is yours? What is it that you want to bring into your life in the new year?"

  "I didn't have any specific needs or wants," she whispered, clutching the mistletoe to her chest. "I just wanted contentment, and personal growth." She would never admit that she had wanted a man, a partner, a fulfilling and satisfying relationship with someone who simply wanted her but didn't need her.

  Ian looked at the mistletoe she was fondling desperately for lack of anything better to do with her hands.

  He shook his head. "Damn it, Bree, this is unreal . . ."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That's what you do in my dream."

  "In your dream?" she asked stupidly, well aware that he was now walking toward her, and she was equal parts aroused and terrified. "I'm in your dream?"

  "Yes." Ian stopped in front of her and ran his fingers down the side of her hair. "You hold that mistletoe, just like that, right before we make love, right here, in this room, in front of that fireplace."

  Whoa. That was the way her dream always went. "Ian . . ." She had no idea what to say, and her tongue suddenly felt six sizes too big for her mouth. How the hell could they, virtual strangers, hundreds of miles apart, have been having the same dream?

  "Bree."

  He kissed her, not like before, but with passion and purpose. It took her breath away, the feel of his hands in her hair, his body warm and close to hers, his mouth taking without hesitation, with delicious skill and a definite knowledge. He knew her mouth and she knew his. They fit together, as though their lips had pleasured each other many times before, and deep inside Bree, she felt the burning of desire, knowing that in some way they had. They knew each other from their dreams, and this wasn't new, but was destiny.

  "You taste so good, just like I imagined," he said, his lips brushing across the corners of her mouth, up her jaw, and kissing her earlobe.

  Bree shivered, her fingers digging into his shoulders, mistletoe still bunched and crushed in her left hand. He said that in her dreams. You taste so good. She had always believed in the power of magick, but this was unbelievable, scary, titillating. It was hard to accept that it was real, and yet it was so very easy to just roll with it, to accept the sensuality
of the moment, to know where it was going to lead. They both knew where it was going, because they had both seen it, felt it already.

  "Ian, I have a confession to make."

  "Yeah?" He was breathing in the scent of her hair while his fingers slipped under her shirt to stroke the small of her back.

  "I've been having the same dream."

  He pulled back and stared at her. "Are you serious?"

  "Yes." She nodded, playing with the collar of his shirt nervously, her fingertips tugging then smoothing. "I didn't know it was you . . . your face is always in shadow. But when you bent over the tree and looked at me, I knew it was you. And you always walk towards me and kiss me."

  "While you're holding mistletoe."

  "Yes."

  "And then we undress each other." Ian's eyes had darkened and his voice had lowered.

  Bree swallowed hard. "Yes. Then you pull the quilt off the sofa . . ."

  "And lay it down, then you down on it, in front of the fireplace. Then I kiss you from head to toe, and here." His knee touched between her thighs. "And you beg for more."

  He did know this dream. "Yes, that's the way it goes."

  Ian shook his head. "Amazing. Strange, freakish, weird as hell, incredible . . . and now we're going to live out our dream, aren't we?"

  Absolutely. Or she was going to puddle to the floor in a mass of unrequited lust. "Yes."

  "Is the dream good for you?" he asked, a small smile on his face.

  "Oh yeah."

  "Then let's make reality even better."

  Chapter 4

  Ian was shocked that Bree had been having the same dream, but at the same time it made sense, in its own very strange way. It wasn't even remotely logical, but it was obviously very real, that she knew exactly how his dreams played out, that he didn't even hesitate to take action.

  He wanted her, a full year's worth of longing, and in that way he did know her. And she had said it had been good for her asleep, so he sure in hell wanted to live up to that awake. Ian kissed Bree, and this time she opened her mouth for him, so that Ian could take her with his tongue, taste her fully, and appreciate the rush of her excited breath past his ear.

  Reality was definitely better than fantasy. He had never been able to fully feel the softness of her lips, the smoothness of her back as he held her, the press of her breasts against his chest. Bree was digging her fingers into his shoulders, and he could smell the evergreen scent as she crushed the mistletoe against him. He stepped back, panting, and marveled at how red her lips were naturally, now shiny and wet from his kisses. He had decimated all of her lip gloss, and yet her mouth was still plump and richly rosy. God, she was just beautiful.

  Reaching for her, Ian took her turtleneck by the bottom and pulled it up and over her head. It got caught on her head, and he laughed when she let out an indelicate curse.

  "I'm stuck." She sounded more amused than angry as she shook her head back and forth and reached up to grapple with the shirt.

  "I'm sorry, I've got it." Ian tugged harder, and the shirt finally popped up and off, leaving her hair plastered all over her face and sticking up with static. She looked adorable, and Ian smoothed the dark strands back down, cupping her cheeks and kissing her softly.

  She unbuttoned his shirt while they kissed, and Ian sucked in his breath as she ran her fingers over his bare flesh.

  "You're lean but it's obvious you work out," she said, rushing over the planes of his muscles and down his navel to the button on his jeans, making his body react enthusiastically. "You have definition."

  "I should hope so after all the work I put into it." Ian leaned forward and sucked on the creamy flesh rising from the top of Bree's black satin bra. He loved that contrast of light flesh and dark clothing. It showed off the pureness of her ivory skin.

  "I don't work out."

  "I don't care." What he had seen looked beautiful to him, not overly thin, not buff, just soft female flesh, with the curves in all the right places. Ian found the zipper on the side of her skirt and yanked it down. A hand inside it, and he managed to knock the clothing off her hips and to the floor. Ian pulled back slightly to just drink her in, standing in front of him in her bra and panties, her hair sliding across her face and down over her shoulders.

  "You're absolutely stunning," he said. "I don't have the words to describe your beauty, Bree, I really don't."

  Even though her cheeks pinkened, she just said, "Thank you." Then ripped his shirt down his arms and tossed it to the floor.

  Whoa. That was fucking hot. Ian had thought that was only his fantasy in the dreams, but apparently it was Bree's as well, because her eyes were burning brightly with desire. "Can you tear my jeans off like that, too?" he asked.

  "I can try."

  That was all a man could ask for.

  The pants weren't as easy as the shirt, but Bree did manage to get them down to his ankles so he could step out of them. She also managed to grope across his erection along the way, and if the sly smile on her face was any indication, she damn well had done it on purpose.

  "Does it meet your standards?" he asked.

  "Mmm-hmm." Bree licked her bottom lip.

  Ian groaned and reached back and yanked the quilt off the sofa. He dropped it on the floor in front of the fireplace and paused. He looked at Bree. "Is there a fire burning in your dreams?"

  Her eyes widened. "Yes. But like I said, we can't use the fireplace. I don't even have any wood."

  "Weird." Ian also didn't remember them using a condom in his dreams, but he retrieved one from his wallet and tossed it down on the quilt. This was real. Better. "It doesn't matter."

  He stood in front of her for a minute, tracing his fingers down her shoulders, her arms, across her stomach and to the waistband of her panties. The anticipation was exciting, painful. He felt like he had waited, well, a whole year for this. So he kissed her, pulling her down onto the lumpy quilt, catching her head before it hit the floor. Part of him wanted to ask her if she was sure, but he didn't want the answer to be no, so he said nothing and trusted that she would stop him if she changed her mind or had second