“You aren’t?” Annie was immediately concerned.
“Maybe coming downstairs was too much for you.” Aunt Liza got up and walked to his end of the table, then put a hand to his forehead to check his temperature. “Yep, he’s got a fever.”
No kidding! What else is new?
“I’ll help you back up the steps,” Chet offered.
“No, that’s all right. I think I could sit in a chair and watch you put up your tree.” I am shameless. Pathetic, even. Then, before he had a chance to bite his tongue, he blurted out, “I’ve never had a Christmas tree.”
Everyone stared at him as if he’d just arrived from Mars. Or New Jersey.
“My father didn’t believe in commercial holidays,” he disclosed, a defensive edge to his voice. Put a zipper on it, Jessup. You don’t want pity. You want…well, something else.
“That settles it, then,” Aunt Liza said, tears welling in her eyes.
Yep, pity.
Annie reached under the table and took his hand in hers.
On the other hand, I can stomach a little pity.
Immediately, a warm feeling of absolute rightness filled him almost to overflowing. He knew then that he’d made the right decision in forestalling his return to the city. Besides, he’d just remembered something important.
He hadn’t checked out the hayloft yet.
Annie Fallon had thought she had troubles this morning before she ever left for Memphis. Little had she known that her troubles would quadruple by nightfall.
In fact, she’d brought trouble home with her, willingly, and it sat big as you please right now on her living room sofa, with one extended leg propped up on an ottoman, gazing at her with smoldering eyes that promised…well, trouble.
Clayton Jessup III had looked handsome this morning when Annie had seen him for the first time in his cashmere overcoat and custom-made suit. But now, sporting a nighttime shadow of whiskers, dressed in tight, faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and an unbuttoned blue plaid flannel shirt that brought out the midnight blue of his eyes, the man was drop-dead gorgeous, testosterone-oozing, hot-hot-hot trouble-on-the-hoof, with a capital T.
“I need to talk with you…alone,” he whispered when Annie stepped close to get the popcorn and cranberry strings he’d been working on for the past two hours. When Aunt Liza had first suggested that he help make the homemade decorations, he’d revealed with an endearing bashfulness, “My father would have been appalled to see me performing this mundane chore. ‘Time is money,’ was his favorite motto. Over and over he used to tell me, ‘You’re wasting time, boy. Delegate, delegate, delegate.’” Then Clay had ruined the effect of his shy revelation by asking Aunt Liza the crass question, “Don’t you think it would be cheaper, timewise, to buy these garlands already strung?”
Clucking with disapproval, Aunt Liza had shoved the darning needle, a ball of string, and bowls of popcorn and cranberries in his lap. “You can’t put a price tag on tradition, boy.”
Along the same line, he’d observed, “I never realized Christmas trees could be so messy.” Her brothers had just dragged in the seven-foot blue spruce from the porch, leaving a trail of fresh needles on the hardwood floors. “Wouldn’t an artificial tree be a better investment in the long run?”
They’d all looked at him as if he’d committed some great sacrilege. Which, of course, he had. An artificial tree? Never! Couldn’t he smell the rich Tennessee forest in the pine scent that permeated the air? Couldn’t he understand that bringing a live tree into the house was like bringing a bit of God’s bounty inside, a direct link between the upcoming celebration of Christ’s birth and the world’s ongoing rejuvenation of life?
“Think with your heart, not your brain, sonny,” Aunt Liza urged.
Now the tree decorating was almost complete, except for the star—which had been in the family for three generations—the garlands, and the last of the handcrafted ornaments made by Fallon children for the past twenty-five or so years. And all Annie could think about was the fact that the man had said he wanted to talk with her, alone. About two thousand red flags of warning went up in Annie’s already muddled senses. “If it’s about your threat to sue, well, you can see we don’t have much.”
The Fallons were a proud family, but her brothers were trusting souls, and in the course of the evening they’d casually divulged their dire need for a new barn roof, the money crunch caused by lower milk prices, and Roy’s tuition woes. They’d even discussed at length how every year at Christmastime the Fallons performed one good deed, no matter how tight they were for money. One year it had been a contribution to a local farm family whose house had burned down. Another year they made up two dozen baskets for a food bank in Memphis, complete with fresh turkeys, home-canned fruits, vegetables and preserves, crisp apples, and pure maple syrup. Still another year, when the till was bone-dry, they’d donated ten hours each to Habitat for Humanity. This year, they hadn’t yet come up with any ideas. But they would before Christmas Eve. Tradition demanded it.
“You can sue us if you want, but it’s obvious that we barely have two dimes to spare. I’ll fight you to the death if you try to take our farm.”
“What in God’s name gave you the idea that I want your farm?” he snapped. Then his voice lowered. “It’s not your farm I’m interested in, Annie.”
Annie loved the way he said her name, soft and special. But there was no way in the world she would ask what he meant by that enigmatic remark. “Perhaps we could pay for your medical expenses over a period of time.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m insured.”
Okay, he’s insured, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t sue us. Should I ask, or assume that he won’t? Hmmm. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. “I hope you’re not going to stop us from doing our Nativity scene for the rest of the week. You’ve got to know it’s our last chance. And—”
He put up a halting hand. “I’d rather you didn’t go back to that sideshow again, but that’s not why I want to talk with you.”
“It’s not?” Annie’s heart was beating so fast she was afraid he might hear it.
“It’s not.”
“What do you want from us, then?”
“From your family…”—he shrugged—“nothing.”
She reflected on his words. “From me?” she squeaked out.
A slow grin crept across his lips, causing those incredible dimples to emerge. Annie had to clench her fists against the compulsion to touch each of the tiny indentations, to trace the outline of those kiss-me lips, to—
A low, masculine chuckle emerged from said lips. “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, Annie, love,” he said in a husky undertone, “I’ll show you what I want.”
Annie, love? Mercy! “I don’t know what you mean,” she said huffily, and backed away before he could tell her exactly how she’d been ogling him and what he would show her.
“You know what I mean, Annie,” he commented to her back. “You know.”
She didn’t know, not for sure, but her imagination kicked in big-time. It was the fever, of course—that strange malady that seemed to affect only the two of them when they were in the same room. Hadn’t they complained of the heat all night? And they both knew it had nothing to do with the roaring fire in the fireplace. It was a fire of another kind entirely.
After that, in the midst of their decorating efforts, Clay helped Hank with his calculus homework. No one was surprised that a man with his financial background could actually perform the complicated equations. Then Jerry Lee expressed a curiosity about Clay’s electronic planner gadget. He showed him its various gee-whiz functions and answered questions about the stock market. Annie had never realized that Jerry Lee was even interested in the investment world.
Throughout the evening, Aunt Liza coddled them all by bringing out trays of hot chocolate and her latest batch of Christmas sugar cookies. “Have another,” she kept urging Clay, who swore his jeans were going to unsnap.
Now that was a pictu
re Annie tried to avoid.
Finally, the tree decorating was complete.
“Turn off the lamps and flick on the tree lights,” Aunt Liza advised. The darkened room looked beautiful under the sheen of the multicolored lights. There was a communal sigh of appreciation from everyone in the room, even Clay.
“Is everyone ready?” Johnny asked, reaching over to turn up the volume on the old-fashioned stereo record player. It had been pumping out Elvis Christmas songs all night.
Her family began singing along with “Blue Christmas”…a less than harmonic but poignant custom that always brought tears to Annie’s eyes. It reminded her of her parents, now gone, and the yuletide rituals they’d started that would be carried on by Fallons forevermore. In some ways, it was as if, at times like this, their parents were still with them.
Annie glanced over at Clay to see how he was reacting to what he must consider a sappy custom. By the glow of the tree lights and the burning logs in the fireplace, she noticed no condescending smirk on his face. He seemed stunned.
Moving to the front of the sofa and leaning forward, she inquired, “What do you think of your first Christmas tree?”
Before Annie could blink, he grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down to the sofa at his side. One of her brothers chuckled midstanza, but Annie couldn’t bother about that. Clay had tucked her close with an arm locked around her shoulder and her hip pressed tight against his. Only then did he answer…a husky whisper breathed against her ear.
“This is a Christmas I will never forget, Annie, love.”
They were alone at last.
And Clay had plans.
Big plans.
Aunt Liza had gone to her bedroom on the first floor off of the kitchen after wishing everyone Merry Christmas and giving each a good-night kiss on the cheek, including Clay, who felt a tightening in his throat at being included in the family. Hank had put another log on the fire for them, winked, then hit the telephone for a long chat with his latest girlfriend. Roy and Jerry Lee had gone out to the barn for a final check of the farm animals. Chet was upstairs giving his baby a last nighttime bottle. Johnny was probably asleep already, being among those who’d gotten up by four A.M. today to do farm chores before going into Memphis. Even Elvis had shut down for the night.
Clay turned to Annie, almost overwhelmed with all the new emotions assailing him. “What’s happening here?” he asked in a hoarse voice that surely tipped her off to his sorry condition.
“I don’t know,” she answered, not even having to ask him what he meant, “but it scares me.”
“Me, too,” he said, nodding. “Me, too.”
“I never really believed in all that instant-attraction stuff. It’s the kind of thing you see in sappy movies, or read about in romance novels. Not real life.”
“I thought it—the instant…uh, attraction stuff—was a woman thing…some half-baked idea women dream up to snare men.”
Neither of them said the word, but it was there, hovering between them…a wonderful-horrible possibility.
Then, unable to resist any longer, he relaxed the arm that had been wrapped around her shoulder, holding her immobile. His hand crept under her silky hair to clasp the bare nape of her neck. His other hand briefly traced the line of her jaw and her full, parted lips before tunneling into her hair, caressing her scalp.
She moaned. But she didn’t pull away. She, too, must sense the inevitable…the impending kiss, and so much more.
“Oh, Annie, I’ve been waiting to do this for hours.”
“I’ve been waiting, too,” she confessed, turning slightly so he could see her better. “For a long, long time.”
He wasn’t sure if she referred to a kiss or this bigger thing looming between them. By the expression of fear on her face, it was probably the latter. Hell, he was scared, too.
At first, he just settled his lips over hers, testing. With barely any pressure at all, he shifted from side to side till they fit perfectly. Then, deepening the kiss, he persuaded her to open for him. The first tentative thrust of his tongue inside her mouth brought stars behind his closed lids and another moan from Annie. He pulled back and whispered against her moist lips, “You taste like candy canes.”
She smiled against his lips and whispered back, “You taste like popcorn. All buttery and salty and movie-balcony naughty.”
Chuckling, he cut her off, kissing her in earnest now, long, drugging kisses that went on and on. He couldn’t get enough. She seemed to feel the same way.
“Annie, love,” he cautioned after what appeared an hour, but was probably only a few minutes, “your brothers are back.” The clomp of heavy boots could be heard on the back porch by the kitchen.
They both sat up straighter, their clasped hands their only body contact.
“G’night,” Roy and Jerry Lee said as they passed through the living room on their way to the stairs. There was a snicker in Roy’s tone, but thankfully he said nothing more.
“Were they kissin’?” he heard Jerry Lee ask in an undertone once they were in the upper hall.
“Do pigs grunt?” Roy answered.
“Annie? Our Annie? Yech!”
“What? You didn’t think she knew how to kiss?”
“Sure…I mean, I guess so. It’s just…I never saw her lookin’ so pink and flustery. And Clay, he looks guilty as sin.”
“Better not be too guilty, or too sinful,” Roy growled.
Their muted voices faded to nothing.
Annie put her face in her hands and groaned. “Pink and flustery! I’ll never hear the end of this. Never. By tomorrow morning, my brothers will be making pink jokes. ‘What’s pink and goes squawk-squawk?’ ‘A flustered Annie chicken.’ Ha, ha, ha.”
Clay barely suppressed a smile. Her embarrassment was endearing. “Annie, that’s not a joke. It’s not even funny.”
She raised her head. “Since when do my brothers’ jokes have to be funny? And don’t think you’re going to escape their teasing either. Uh-uh. You are in for it, big-time. How about, ‘What’s got a scratchy jaw and googly eyes?’”
“Annie,” he warned.
“‘A Princeton hog in rut.’” At his gaping mouth, she nodded her head vigorously. “See. That’s what you can expect.”
Is she saying I have googly eyes…what ever the hell googly eyes are? Clay lowered his lashes to half-mast and pulled Annie into his embrace again, fitting her face into the curve of his neck. He kissed the top of her head, murmuring, “Oh, Annie. It doesn’t matter what they say when this feels so right.”
She sighed, which he took for a nonverbal sign of agreement, and nestled closer. “I suppose you want to sleep with me.”
Whoa! That got his attention. “Where did that come from? We were just kissing, Annie.” Not that other parts of my body weren’t headed in that direction. But, geez! Talk about getting right to the point!
Annie put her hands on his chest and shoved away slightly so she could look at him directly. “Are you saying you don’t want to make love with me?”
“Hell, no.”
He reached for her, but she squirmed back, keeping her distance.
“Me, too.”
Me, too? What does that mean? Oh, my God! Did she just say she wants to make love with me? “Annie, this is going a bit fast, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not sure it’s a good idea making love on your living room couch where anyone could barge in at any moment.” Me, too? Son of a gun! I do like a woman who can make up her mind. No games with my Annie. No, sirree.
She made a snorting sound of disgust, waving a hand in the air. “That’s not what I meant, you dolt.”
His spirits immediately deflated. Damn!
“I’m just trying to tell you that…uh…um…”
“What?” he prodded. This was the most disarming, confusing conversation he’d ever had with a woman, and if it got any hotter in this room he was going to explode.
As if mirroring his thoughts, Annie wiped her forehead with the back of one ha
nd and began to unbutton her flannel shirt, revealing a tight white T-shirt underneath.
He refused to look there.
He was not going to look.
He was looking.
Man, oh, man!
That had been her bra in the bathroom, all right. Her breasts pushed against the thin material, full and uptilted, the nipples puckered into hard peaks. It wasn’t that she was big busted, but because she was so thin, it appeared that way. Good thing she didn’t look like that in her Blessed Mother outfit or she’d have had men propositioning her right there in the Nativity scene. Or else she’d get some super tips.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he choked out.
“Like you’re…like you’re…”
“…interested?” He couldn’t stop the grin that twitched at his lips.
“Stop smirking. I’m trying to tell you something.”
“Oh?” he said, trying his damnedest not to look at her chest and not to grin with pure, unadulterated anticipation. As a final measure, he clenched his fists at his sides to keep from grabbing for her.
“I’m a virgin.”
That was the last thing Clay had expected to hear.
“A virgin?” he squeaked out. A twenty-eight-year-old virgin?
“Yeah, isn’t that the biggest joke of all?”
She was actually embarrassed by her virginity. Well, it did put a new light on their making love. Not that he didn’t still want her, but it sure as hell wouldn’t take place on a sofa with broken springs in a houseful of gun-toting brothers and an aunt who wielded a wicked spoon. “Annie, why tell me this now?”
“You have a right to know…if I’m reading that glimmer in your eye the right way.”
She is. Clay lowered his lashes and tried his best to curb that “glimmer” in his eye.
“You probably think I’m repressed or gay or ultrareligious. But it’s just that I haven’t had time for dating since my parents died. And Prince Charming doesn’t come riding his charger down the lane to a dairy farm real often.”