This Year's Christmas Present

  “And where exactly is this car of yours parked?” she asked calmly.

  He rubbed his ear. “About three hundred yards down the road.”

  “Uh-huh.” She took another sip of coffee. “I have news for you, Attila, I managed to get a station on my Walkman last night for all of fifteen minutes, but I did hear words to the effect of ‘storm of the century,’ ninety-mile-per-hour winds, and something in the range of three and a half feet of snow.”

  Hunter was surprised. “This wasn’t predicted.”

  “They never are. Apparently this baby went out to sea, picked up a ton of moisture, and headed back inland. The weathermen were going bonkers, from what I heard.”

  He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “Dammit! I need to get out of here today. I have to get to Sri Lanka!”

  May eyed him strangely. “Uh-huh. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? How many fingers do I have up?” May wasn’t holding any fingers up.

  “Don’t be cute. Since it seems we’re both stuck here for the time being, how are we set for supplies?”

  There was that “we” business again. “There’s plenty to eat. More than enough for two.” For the amount of time he would be here. Wisely, May kept that thought to herself.

  Apparently C. Hunter Douglas wasn’t going to take her estimation of the subject; he stormed off to the cubicle kitchen and began slamming cabinet doors open and shut. “Where are your food supplies? All I see here is this bag of apples.”

  “Try the refrigerator.”

  He opened up the fridge and found a box of Cheerios and a carton of Half-and-Half. He frowned. “Why do you have Cheerios in the refrigerator?”

  “Just in case.” This was relayed with the utmost seriousness.

  Coming from New York City, Hunter understood. One could never be too careful until one checked out the premises. Uninvited surprises rustling over the breakfast cereal had a tendency to remove one’s appetite.

  He opened the freezer.

  A row of Tiny Cuisine boxes greeted him.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Great. Midget food.

  “There’s not enough here for one person to eat. Tell me this is not all the food you have here.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  May reached past him, opening the refrigerator to remove the box of cereal. Getting a small bowl for Benny, she poured the dachshund a bowl, moistening it with a little water and a drop of Half-and-Half. The dog eagerly began consuming, his small tail wagging happily.

  “We probably should save the cereal for him.”

  That left the midget food. Hunter grimaced; his stomach was already growling. He grabbed an apple off the counter. “I’ll go check out that generator. See what you can pick up on your radio.”

  May crossed her arms over her chest. Why do men feel they can barge in anywhere and start giving orders? As if she would pay heed to a man talking to her in a red velvet suit! “Excuse me, but there’s something you seem to have forgotten.”

  Hunter paused at the head of the cellar stairs. “What’s that?”

  “This is my rental cabin—you are the intruder.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’ll give the orders around here.”

  He exhaled. “I see.” He leaned against the door jamb and, imitating her, crossed his arms over his chest.

  May had to admit that, of the two of them, he probably looked the more authoritative.

  “And what, pray tell, are your ‘orders’?”

  She notched her chin challengingly in the air. “I’ll go check the generator and you listen to the radio.” She wanted to slap her own face. Why had she said that? She really did not want to go in that creepy cellar. She tried to look brave.

  Hunter grinned slowly. It was clear the woman did not want to go down there. She was rather cute…If only she weren’t one of them. “Okay, green eyes, I’ll check the generator while you listen to the radio.”

  “Right.” She nodded briskly as if that were what she had actually said.

  He whistled all the way down the stairs.

  Which made May realize that C. Hunter Douglas was going to prove to be the irritating type.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It had taken him a couple of hours, but C. Hunter Douglas had gotten the old generator working, which moved him up considerably in May’s estimation.

  He had also managed to drag up the cumbersome radio from the cellar, placing it on the countertop in the kitchen. He had worked on the radio as well, with some rusty tools he had found down there.

  May was impressed. She had figured him for a man who never saw the outside walls of an office and therefore assumed he would have no mechanical ability.

  When she jokingly told him this, he smiled faintly. “I sometimes suffer from insomnia and often turn on a do-it-yourself cable station in the middle of the night, hoping it will knock me out. It hasn’t cured my insomnia, but I have learned how to plant an asparagus bed, put up dry wall, wire an enclosed porch, decorate with style on a shoestring, and cook a Cornish game hen.”

  He paused, then added, “I hate Cornish game hens. They look like diminutive pigeons.”

  May chuckled, the word “diminutive” reminding her that they hadn’t eaten the Tiny Cuisine yet. She offered to heat up their meals in the small micro wave she had brought with her.

  Hunter continued to fiddle with the radio. They both were surprised when a burst of static blasted the kitchen.

  “It’s working!” May beamed at him.

  Douglas wore the expression most men wore when they’d managed to repair something. It was a look of demure caveman cockiness. May had often considered the look just short of a gorilla beating its chest.

  Women never displayed that look when they did something considered traditionally “female”! Like managing to feed a family of five on a blue-collar bud get. Now, there was an accomplishment!

  She could just imagine a woman taking her masterpiece of a tuna casserole out of the oven, placing it on the table, only to throw back her shoulders and beat her chest with her fists while letting out a victorious Tarzan yell.

  Her humorous fantasy was interrupted by a now familiar male voice angrily yelling into the radio receiver.

  “What do you mean, a week? I can’t stay here that long! I’m a publisher!”

  Apparently Douglas had reached the sheriff’s office in town.

  The radio crackled and a tired-sounding voice responded, “Look pal, haven’t you been listening to me? It’s still snowing out there! And it’s going to be snowing for the next two days. The whole Northeast has been paralyzed by this storm. We can’t even keep up with the emergencies.”

  “This is an emergency! I have to get a manuscript!” Douglas started ranting about a million dollars and Sri Lanka, and May was sure the guy on the other end had chalked him up as New York City looney-tunes.

  “Hey! Hey!” the guy was getting really irritated. “You have shelter and food and you’re in no immediate danger— that’s all I care about. I know where you are. In order to get you out of there, we’re going to need some heavy equipment which I can’t supply right now. I’ve got people in desperate situations all over the county. The roads are impassable. So you can just sit tight and wait.” The man ended the transmission.

  May banged Hunter’s tray of food on the table.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Congeniality. We should be dug out of here by next spring!”

  Hunter roughly pulled his chair out, seating himself. “It wasn’t my fault! He…” His gaze went to the food in front of him. A spoonful of rice. Two half-dollar-size slices of turkey swimming in a cup of brown water meant to be gravy. “Where’s the rest of this?”

  Even though she secretly agreed with him, had even been planning on getting some real food, there was no way she was going to admit the deficiencies of the meal to him. Better he think she was a woman with an agenda who stuck to her plans! Otherwise there would be no end to the complaining.


  “That’s it,” she loftily informed him, making her voice sound slightly disdainful as if there were nothing lacking in her choice of fare. “And since it looks like we’re going to be stuck here together for a week, we have to go easy on this stuff.”

  She licked the edge of her fork. “Eat up.”

  She remembered a cartoon in which Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and Goofy all sat down at an elegantly dressed table, complete with overhanging chandelier. Unfortunately, they had nothing to eat except one bean, which Mickey made a great show of slicing into see-thru-thin slices, placing one slice on each plate. Donald Duck watched Mickey silently, his temper slowly reaching the boiling point until suddenly he erupted. Pulling the feathers out of his head, he squawked his head off as he swung upside down from the chandelier.

  C. Hunter Douglas had that same look on his face right now.

  So she was surprised when, after he clenched and unclenched his fists several times, he quietly picked up his fork.

  He took a bite of rice. “Not only is there nothing to eat here, but it tastes lousy.”

  May shrugged off the critique. “Dieters can’t be choosers.”

  Hunter’s silver gaze skimmed her figure. “Why are you dieting? You look fine to me.”

  She put down her fork in exasperation. “I have a deadline!”

  Hunter stared at her unblinking for several moments. “And A is to B as C is to…?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.” He swallowed both slices of turkey in one gulp.

  “It’s sort of all tied in with a sense of accomplishment.”

  Hunter gestured at her with his fork. “It shouldn’t be. I have never understood why women feel they have to starve themselves scrawny to feel good about themselves.”

  “I hardly starve myself, as you can see!”

  Hunter’s eyes twinkled. “Which makes it all the more confusing as to why you only brought these minuscule dinners with you.”

  Her cheeks flamed. She thought he might be insulting her but she wasn’t sure. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  He smiled, revealing two curved dimples. “No, I am not.” He let his gaze travel over her again, lingering on her rounded hips and full breasts. She really was a lovely woman. Now that his head wasn’t pounding so bad, he was beginning to see some advantage to his situation.

  “Just the opposite,” he murmured.

  Now she did blush. May reached for a glass of water rather shakily. He had better behave himself or he was going to get locked in the fruit cellar with Norman Bates’s mother.

  Hunter tossed his plastic dinner tray onto the floor for Benny, who gratefully licked up the soupy gravy.

  “That won’t upset his stomach, will it?”

  “Nah. Dogs can eat anything.”

  “Are you sure? I now he’s your dog, but—”

  “He’s not my dog. He was one of the gifts I—”

  “Uh-huh. And how did you know I would even want a dog?”

  Hunter sighed. There was no sense trying to explain that to her again. He stood, grabbing two apples off the table. “I’m going to scoop out a place for our friend here. I’m sure he needs to go. The back stoop isn’t too bad because of the overhang; it’ll have to do. C’mon, Benny.” The dachshund trotted after Douglas, something akin to hero worship in his eyes.

  C. Hunter Douglas might say that dog does not belong to him, May thought, but the wiener believed otherwise.

  CHAPTER TEN

  By late that afternoon May wanted to murder him.

  In fact, she began to think up ways to do it.

  She closed her eyes as he paced by the back of her chair for the thousandth time. He had been pacing for hours. Admittedly, there wasn’t much for him to do— there was no T V, her radio wasn’t picking up any stations, and there was no phone for “business chats.” It was obvious that C. Hunter Douglas was completely at a loss.

  She clenched her jaw at his next pass. “Mr. Douglas, please! I’m trying to work here.”

  “It’s Hunter.” He stopped pacing suddenly. “Hey, do you have any games on that laptop?”

  She gritted her teeth. “No. Just word processing. As in manuscript.”

  He groaned, clutching his stomach. “Don’t mention that word to me, it’s making my stomach hurt.”

  “You don’t think it could be the six apples you ate?” she said wryly.

  He paused to look at her. “You think?” he asked seriously.

  She smiled at the boyish expression. “It’s a distinct possibility. You better lay off them, Hunter.”

  “I’m starving!”

  “Oh, stop complaining! You’d have to pay a spa three thousand bucks a week for the same treatment you’ll be getting here for free, and all they would add to the plate would be a little raddichio.”

  He threw her a dirty look.

  “Don’t think about it.”

  “And what would you suggest I do to take my mind off it?” His glance ran suggestively over her again. If he had met her under other circumstances he would have asked her out to dinner. And more.

  May had no trouble reading his look. “Forget it. Men in moldy, baggy red velvet are not a major turn-on for me.” She wondering if her nose was growing. Hunter was an extremely attractive man. Even in the Santa suit.

  “If it’ll make you feel better, I’d be happy to remove it.” He grinned wickedly at her.

  She exhaled. “You’re just trying to annoy me because you’re bored. Why don’t you read?”

  “Read? You’ve got books here? Why didn’t you say so hours ago?”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “What do you think has been staring at you in that open carton over there by the fireplace?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, well, those are romance books. I thought you meant you had—”

  That deserved a glare. “Don’t say it if you value your red velvet hide.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’ve never—I mean they are women’s books—”

  “It’s not like you have anything else to do—why don’t you pick up one, you might be surprised.”

  He speculated on that, then walked over to the box of books. He knelt down, shuffling through the titles. “Is your book in here?”

  “Why would I bring my own book?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Why not? Is May Forrester your real name?”

  “May is; Forrester is a nom de plume.”

  Hunter picked up one of her favorite books, opening the step-back cover. His eyes widened. “This guy doesn’t have anything on but a towel!”

  “Best towel I’ve ever seen,” she agreed with a smile.

  He threw her a look. “So what is your real last name?” He sat down on the floor near the fireplace, opening the book.

  “Bea.”

  He read a few paragraphs, then stopped, capturing her in his gaze. “Your real name is May Bea?” Rich laughter filled the room.

  “Stop that!”

  “That must have been real interesting in high school—‘May Bea she will and May Bea she won’t.’” He chuckled, shaking his head. “No wonder you took a pen name.”

  May snapped the lid of her laptop shut. The man was not going to let her work! And he was too close to the mark; the kids had teased her mercilessly when she was young. Which was probably why she had become a writer; she had often run off by herself and daydreams had been her constant companions.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “And who are you to talk? I can just guess what hideous first name is hidden by the initial C, Mr. C. Hunter Douglas!”

  A dimple showed in his cheek. “Go ahead.” His silver eyes flashed challengingly at her.

  She hesitated, leery of the look on his provocative face. “Go ahead what?”

  “Try and guess.”

  She narrowed a distrustful look at him. “You’ll tell me if I guess correctly?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right.” She tapped h
er foot against the wooden floor. “Cecil.”

  “Nope.”

  “Clem.”

  He grinned. “Uh-uh.” He went back to reading his book.

  “Don’t you worry, I have a whole week to come up with it.”

  “It’s enough to give one pause,” he said without looking up. Which was a good thing, because his eyes were definitely twinkling with humor.

  And something else.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “By the way, what was the name of your book?”

  It was late evening. Hunter had moved up to the bed. The floor was drafty and, with the winds still howling from the unabated storm, May guessed, downright cold.

  It was going to make sleeping difficult for him.

  She had already decided to offer him the one and only quilt. She would have to try to keep herself warm with her jacket.

  “You know very well what the name of it is.”

  He quirked his brow. “Let’s pretend I don’t.”

  “Love’s Loose Canon.”

  He burst into laughter.

  May was incensed. “It’s a pirate story, so stop that right now! There were lots of people who loved it.”

  He stopped laughing; that had gotten the publisher’s attention. “By ‘lots’ what are we talking about?”

  “Romance is very popular.” Translated for him, it meant profitable.

  He suddenly became serious. “I know; I’ve been looking into it, actually. My uncle has some old-fashioned notions about what Fortuna should and should not publish.”

  “Well, this could turn out to be a very good opportunity for you! You have the time, I’ve got the books, not to mention my knowledge of the genre, which I am willing to let you pick at—you could make good use of your time here.”

  A tiny line formed across his brow as he considered it. “Mmm…that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Just remember, I’m off limits.”

  He looked her questioningly.

  “I—I mean as far as writing for your company,” she stammered.

  He smiled rather sexily, enjoying her discomfort. “Does that mean you’re ‘on limits’ for anything else?”