Leigh Greenwood

"Leigh Greenwood is one of the finest writers in American romance today."
Romantic Times

Elaine Fox

"Hurray! There's a vibrant new voice in romance, and her name is Elaine Fox."
Patricia Gaffney, bestselling author of Lily

Linda Winstead

"Readers will be adding Ms. Winstead to their list of authors to cherish!"
Romantic Times Christmas Spirit Elaine Fox
Leigh Greenwood
Linda Winstead A LEISURE BOOK®

November 1997

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

The Publisher acknowledges the individual copyright holders as follows:

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

ISBN 0-8439-4320-3

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Printed in the United States of America.

BAH, HUMBUG!

Leigh Greenwood To Anne and Jim Lincoln

Chapter One

17 Shopping Days till Christmas

Nate Jerome leaned against the wall as the heavy, antiquated elevator, groaning and protesting, carried him to the eleventh floor. He was almost too tired to stand. He considered sinking down in the corner, but the only time he'd done that, old Mrs. Bridgewater from the ninth floor had gotten on, assumed he was a homeless person come to steal her purse, and started screaming.

Nate looked at his watch. 10:17 P.M. He'd been up since five, dealing with one angry client after another. They all seemed to think that if they spent $50,000 on a commercial, it ought to air on "Seinfeld," "Roseanne," and "Home Improvement." During the last weeks before Christmas, prime commercial spots went for several hundred thousand dollars. If you could get them.

Something sounding like plastic crunched behind him. Christmas decorations in the elevator. Damn! They were everywhere. Some fellow at City Hall had come up with an appropriation to decorate the subway stations. The stuff was all over the lobby downstairs. Couldn't they leave his elevator alone? He looked up. Someone had taped garlands to the ceiling. He groaned. Any more Christmas, he was going to throw up.

The elevator came to a halt on the seventh floor. A woman in her bathrobe, her hair in curlers, and holding a cup of sugar got on. Nate decided he was hallucinating. People didn't borrow cups of sugar anymore, not even in the suburbs. And not even in New York did they get on elevators in a bathrobe and hair curlers.

The apparition disappeared on the eighth floor, to be replaced by a small child who obviously should have been in bed hours ago. "My name's Clarissa Adams," she announced loudly as she stood on tiptoe to push the button. "I've been to Miranda's Christmas party."

A reindeer was appliquéd across the front of the child's dress. She wore a hat that proclaimed MERRY CHRISTMAS! in Day-Glo orange. The bag in which she carried her presents was covered with holly wreaths.

Nate felt like a man pursued. He couldn't wait until he could board a plane for Aruba. Hopefully they didn't have Christmas in the tropics.

Nate gave the child a quick once-over. She reminded him forcibly of his niece who'd been sick all over him last Christmas. He repressed the memory.

He had assumed children barely out of diapers would be chaperoned by parents who would schedule their offspring's parties during daylight hours. His mother had sent him to bed at seven-thirty until he was eight.

"How old are you?" Nate asked. "Five," the little girl said. She held up all five digits to illustrate.

Nate shuddered. At five the elevators, at six the lobby. Seven the sidewalk. After that? He didn't want to think.

"Where's your mommy?"

"She went to a party."

"Where's your father?" After this he could always ask about aunts, uncles, cousins. Maybe he could take notes.

"He's watching the Knicks. They're losing. Miranda's father is watching them, too."

Nate wondered why he hadn't arrived on his floor. They'd been talking long enough to go to the top floor and back. He looked at the panel. The hold button was on.

"How did that happen?" he asked, startled.

"I pushed it," the little girl said. "I like talking to you."

Nate felt chills run up and down his spine. All he needed was to be caught in a closed elevator with a child and the hold button on. He pushed the restart button.

"We'd better cut this short. Your parents will be worried sick, anxious to put you to sleep."

"Nanny puts me to bed," the little girl announced. "Mommy says she hasn't the patience for it."

"How about your brothers and sisters?"

"I don't have any. Mommy says she can't afford to have her figure ruined again. Mommy says they don't hire actresses with bulging stomachs."

Nate had to admit that was true. He'd hired dozens of actresses over the years, and none of them had had bulging stomachs, not even the ones playing pregnant women. A real pregnancy ruined the complexion. Besides, pregnant women waddled. You couldn't have anybody waddle about in a millon-dollar commercial. Not even a $50,000 one.

''Where do you live?" Nate asked.

"In the tower."

"But the penthouses have their own elevator," Nate said. "You can't get there from here."

"I like riding your elevators. There's never anybody in ours."

That was the whole point. People who lived in penthouses didn't want their elevators cluttered up with riffraff. Nate thought a $3,200-a-month apartment ought to set him apart from the riffraff, but then again he couldn't have afforded a nanny for his little girl, if he'd had one.

The elevator came to a halt on the eleventh floor, and the doors opened. Nate shoved himself away from the wall. "This is my floor."

"Where do you live?" the child asked.

"Eleven oh nine," Nate said, catching himself before he gave his real apartment number.

"Can I come see you sometime?"

Oh, good Lord! How was he going to get out of this? He could just imagine this beautiful little child skipping into her penthouse and announcing to one and all, "I met this nice man on the elevator. He invited me to his apartment." Since she knew exactly what he looked likehe wouldn't put it past her to produce a drawing of him that would put a police artist to shameit shouldn't take the enforcers of the law more than twenty minutes to find him. That ought to give him just enough time to shower, shave, and search his wardrobe for something in black-and-white stripes.

Nate grabbed the elevator door to keep it from closing. There was no need. Clarissa had already pushed the open button. This kid must have been cruising elevators since she was two.

"Sure, as long as you bring your mommy and daddy," Nate said. He was certain they'd never come.

"I'll bring Nanny."

Just what he needed. Females too young and too old to understand the needs and frustrations of a thirty-two-year-old career man in commercial advertising.

"You do that," Nate said, certain she would forget all about him before the elevator reached her floor.

"When?"

"When what?"

"When can I come visit?"

This tyke meant business. "You'd better call first. I'm not home much."

"Okay." With a brilliant smile, Clarissa pushed the button, the doors closed, and the elevator descended.

Nate breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he'd given the child his neighbor's apartment number rather than his own.

14 Shopping Days till Christmas

Nate was beat. For the third night this week, he was getting home around ten-thirty. He'd hoped to make it home hours earlier. He'd planned to ask his neighbor, Milly Thurston, for a date. He'd been wanting to get to know her ever since he'd met her moving in seven months ago.

Oh, well, maybe after the New Year. They occupied adjoining apartments. If he ever got home before she went to bed, maybe he could engineer a meeting. If he wasn't too tired to care he didn't have a love life. Or any kind of life, for that matter.

That was what he ought to tell Santa he wanted for Christmas. A life and a woman to go with it.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and he got out. He walked along the hall, made a left, and came to a screeching halt. Clarissa stood before 1109, talking to someone he couldn't see. Just then she turned, saw him, and cried out, "There he is."

It was too late to retreat. He'd been spotted, identified, and his presence announced to anyone within a hundred yards who wasn't stone deaf. Clarissa came running toward him with a smile as brilliant as his frown was heavy. To compound his dilemma, Milly Thurston stepped out of her apartment into the hall.

Milly was a tall, willowy blonde. She probably had a whole legion of Swedes in her pedigree. She wore a plain black sweater and a pair of white wool pants that clung suggestively to her hips. Nate couldn't think of a worse time to make his first impression on this vision of loveliness.

"That lady says you don't live in 1109," Clarissa announced when she reached him. "She says you live in 1107."

Caught flat-footed, he didn't dare look Milly in the eye. "Did I say 1109?" Nate asked. "I can't imagine why I would do a thing like that." "Neither can we," Milly said, coming up behind Clarissa.

"I was probably tired," Nate said, grasping for any excuse that offered a possibility, no matter how remote, that she might believe him. "I must have confused seven with nine."

"They're so much alike," Milly said, clearly not believing him.

"No, they're not," Clarissa announced.

The kid might be only five, but she knew her own mind. Confession was the only way out.

"I thought it wouldn't be a good idea for a little girl to be knocking on a man's apartment door. People might get the wrong idea."

Milly was grinning. Damn and blast! She'd already figured it out. She was enjoying his discomfiture.

"What kind of idea?" Clarissa asked.

Wonderful! Now he had to explain to a little girl the dangers of talking to strange men. Her mother ought to do that. Or her nanny. Even this grinning Swede named Milly. What kind of name was that for a Scandinavian, anyway? She ought to be Dagmar or Birgit. Even Brunhilda. Milly was the name of some simpering little brunette who lived down the street, wore her hair in pigtails, and mooned over a greased-up rocker she'd be too frightened to date if he actually asked her.

"It's not safe to talk to men you don't know," Nate said to Clarissa. "They might try to kidnap you." Okay, it was a cop-out, but he wasn't up to explaining all the dangers of strangers, particularly not under the amused eye of this blond Valkyrie.

"I wouldn't talk to a bad man," Clarissa stated quite earnestly. "I only talk to nice people like you. You smiled at me."

Wonderful. Women the world over preferred dangerous menthe kind who glared at them from beneath hooded lids, bulging muscles taut, perspiration dampening their unshaven chinsand he was being declared safe by a grinning five-year-old. That flushed his chances with this Nordic temptress down the drain.

"Great," he said with a complete lack of conviction. "Now, why don't you let this nice lady take you back to your parents."

"They're not home."

"Well then, back to your nanny."

"She's watching TV."

"Good. You'll know right where to find her."

"I want you to take me," Clarissa announced.

He couldn't help but look at Milly, whose grin was broader than ever. "Couldn't you help me out here?"

"You're doing fine by yourself."

"I'm going under for the third time, and all you can do is laugh."

"You can't drown without water," Clarissa announced.

"That's what you think," he muttered under his breath.

Milly laughed outright.

"You're whispering," Clarissa said, offended. "Mommy says it's not polite to whisper in front of people."

"If your mommy is so worried about propriety, why doesn't she stay home and see you don't go wandering all over the building unprotected?" Nate snapped.

"Mommy went to a party."

"I suppose your father is watching another basketball game."

"You seem to know a lot about her family," Milly said, giving him a quizzical look.

"We met in the elevator," Nate explained. "She wanted to talk, so she cut the elevator off. Then she announced she intended to come visit me. I couldn't explain to her that if she wanted to visit me a second time, she'd probably have to go down to the city jail. I hear they don't treat child molesters very nicely in prison."

Milly's eyes were brimming with laughter. "I don't know why I didn't hire a little girl to knock on my door sooner. I've seldom had a more entertaining evening."

Nate couldn't decide whether to make a sour face or give in to the silly, little-boy grin he felt coming. He was standing talking in the most friendly manner to the most delicious-looking blonde he'd ever seen. With a five-year-old chaperon.

"I'll tell you what," Milly said, "suppose I go with you to take Clarissa home?"

"I don't want to go home," Clarissa announced.

Nate ignored Clarissa's protest. "Would you?"

"We wouldn't want you arrested, would we?"

A cold dread marred his pleasure in the moment. "Certainly not. I've got three new commercials airing next week."

"They have televisions in prison."

She really was enjoying watching him squirm. She probably loved to torture her dates. "Are you going to prison?" Clarissa asked.

"Not if I can help it. Now come along. We've got to get you back before your nanny sets the police on me."

"She won't do that," Clarissa said. "She's asleepI wait until she's sleeping to go out."

"What!" Nate and Milly exclaimed in unison.

"She doesn't like for me to go out by myself," Clarissa explained.

Nate grabbed the little girl's hand and headed for the elevator. When Nate cursed softly under his breath because he didn't have a key for the private elevator to the penthouse and saw no hope of talking the man at the desk into giving him one, Clarissa calmly produced the key from her pocket.

All the way up she entertained him and Milly with accounts of her mother's various attempts to get an acting job. Nate guessed she must be as lacking in talent as she was attractive.

"My daddy chases bulls."

"He's a matador?" Nate asked. That didn't seem possible. But it was even more unlikely that a rodeo cowboy could afford to occupy the penthouse.

"I think she means he's a member of the stock exchange," Milly said. "Brokers are always saying they chase the bull market."

Great! Now this modern-day Shirley Temple had made him look like a fool who didn't know that bulls and bears played daily on the stockmarket for the entertainment of harried stockbrokers. His Nordic long-stemmed rose would run for the safety of her apartment at the first opportunity.

"Is he out chasing them tonight?" He knew the stock exchange was closed, but what the hell. He had nothing to lose.

"No. He said the bears had chased the bulls away. He went to the party with Mommy. He said he was going to get drunk. He was very upset. I think the bears ate some of his money. I didn't know bears liked money."

"Only very odd bears," Nate assured her. "And it's best for little girls to stay away from them."

Milly's giggles brought a flush to his cheeks. He was certain his neck was red. Not his best color.

The elevator, mercifully free of decorations, opened on the penthouse floor. The small lobby was as free of seasonal decorations as it was expensively decorated. Clarissa produced another key from her pocket and unlocked the door.

"I'll see her inside," Milly offered.

"Thank you." Nate hadn't intended to step one foot inside. He couldn't wait to get back on the elevator for common folks. He had grown up in a small town upstate. Despite ten years in the city, such displays of wealth made him uneasy.

He started to leave, and then decided it would be cowardly to desert Milly. After all, she hadn't had to come with him. They'd ride down and back up in the elevators together. Maybe he could work up the courage to ask her for a date.

No, she'd probably giggle. That would emasculate him as effectively as a knife.

"Did you explain to the nanny?" he asked when Milly returned.

"She was asleep on the sofa. I told Clarissa to sit next to her. When she wakes up, she'll think the child has been there the whole time." Nate had to admire her guile. He'd never have thought of anything so simple.

Milly smiled at hima stunning, brilliant smileand his legs nearly went out from under him. There was nothing to grab for support but a tall urn full of dried fronds of some kind. They looked like weeds to Nate.

"I figured it would be better if they didn't know she was wandering around alone. I made her promise to bring the nanny with her next time."

Nate pushed the elevator button. "Do you think she will?"

"No."

She smiled at him again. Nate felt like he did the last time he had the flu. His head was ringing, and his stomach felt queasy. If this was the effect Milly was going to have on him, it was a good thing he was too much of a gutless coward to ask her out.

The elevator door closed and started down. He was locked in the elevator with the woman of his dreams, and he felt like he was going to be sick. What kind of red-blooded American male was he? Pink blooded, from the way he felt, every corpuscle desperate for an infusion of iron. He had to at least talk to her, act as if he had some backbone. After he saw her to her door, he could go into his own apartment and quietly cut his throat.

"Thanks for coming with me." Lame! Weak kneed. A teenager can do better than that.

"You looked so desperate. I couldn't abandon you."

Great! Now I'm an object of pity. Way to go, Nate. You're really getting high marks tonight. "I was, a little. You know how suspicious people are these days."

"I thought you handled it well. You were very sweet."

Great horned owls! Didn't this woman know that the last thing any man wanted to be called was sweet? She could have said handsome, bold, dangerous, dashing, debonair. Thick as a plank would have been better than sweet! His blood was turning pinker by the minute. He'd be forced to eat quiche for the rest of his life. They'd bar him from the men's locker room at the YMCA.

"I'm not very experienced with children."

"Never been married?"

"No."

"Hmmmm."

Now what did she mean by that? Did she think he wasn't good enough, that no woman would have him, that he couldn't cut the mustard?

"Just getting home?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Are you this late often?"

"More than I'd like."

"What do you do?"

"I'm in advertising."

"Hmmmm."

There she went again. It was driving him nuts. They reached the ground floor. That penthouse elevator didn't mess around.

As they approached the regular elevators, one opened right in front of them. Everything was conspiring against him. He'd never have time to get his act together and convince Milly he was the kind of man she'd like to date. She'd probably expect him to take her to the zoo or to Coney Island.

A peculiar-looking old woman he'd never seen before was already on the elevator. There was something strange about her. As he looked at her, her eyes seemed to flicker with an otherworldly light. Nate decided he'd been working so hard he was imagining things.

''Don't you ever get home late?" he asked Milly as they got into the elevator.

"I make it a rule never to work later than five o'clock."

If he did that, he'd be out of a job in a week. She must be some hotshot for her boss to agree to those terms.

"Young ladies should live with their parents," the old woman announced, looking at Milly's fingers bare of a wedding ring. "You never know what kind of man you'll run into."

She gave Nate a look that said she wouldn't be surprised to find out he was a serial killer.

"I don't have any parents," Milly said.

"Then you must have family," the woman said. "They'll take you in."

"No," Milly said. "Both their families were killed in the war. American soldiers rescued them as children and brought them to the United States."

The woman sniffed. The elevator stopped, the door opened, and she got off ahead of Nate and Milly. She looked back, sniffed again, and walked off.

Nate was angry. Milly giggled.

"She probably thinks we're up to some hanky-panky," Milly said.

"Hanky-panky," Nate said, smiling as a warm happiness spread all over him. "My mother says that, only she whispers it to Dad. I think she's afraid it would corrupt us if we heard it."

"My parents were the same," Milly said. "If they knew I was living in New York by myself, they'd be turning in their graves." They started down the hall.

"How long have you been here?"

"Six years. You?"

"Ten."

"You like it?"

"Yes."

"I do most of the time, but occasionally I get a longing for a real town and a real home with real friends."

"Things are real here, too."

"Not the way I mean . . . Have you had anything to eat?"

Was she going to invite him out to dinner? Could his pink manhood endure the shame? Absolutely. To have dinner with a woman like this, he'd risk anything, everything.

"No." He tried to look helpless and hopeful at the same time. He wasn't sure if it worked because he didn't really know how to do that. "I usually fix something before I go to bed."

"Like what, beer and pickles?"

A laugh exploded from him. "I'd be sick."

"Good. I cooked tonight. There's plenty. Want to come over for a bite?"

Did he want to come over? He'd climb the roof, he'd swing in through the window, he'd give that peculiar old lady a whacking big hug.

"Sure," he said, sounding cool and in control.

"Drop your briefcase and change into something comfortable." They turned the corner. The old lady was nowhere in sight. Nate wondered where she'd gone. He hadn't heard any door open and close.

"By the way," Milly said, "I'm not offering anything but food."

He swallowed, certain visions dying half-born.

"Would a man Clarissa thinks is sweet think anything else?" he asked.

She gave him a measured look. "It's not the sweet part of you I'm talking to." She turned and walked toward her apartment.

Hot damn! Nate exclaimed to himself as he did a jig down the hall. I'm dangerous. I'm bold. I might even be able to smolder a bit if I really concentrate.

Thank God. He really hated quiche.

Chapter Two

A tiny shiver went through Milly as she closed the door behind her. She had asked Nate to come by for something to eat. She had actually asked a man to her apartment. She could hardly believe it.

Despite her looks, she'd never dated much. She'd been a shy only child who'd had trouble making friends, so her parents had sent her to an expensive New England boarding school. That wasn't the answer. The girls didn't like her because she didn't belong and was pretty. The boys avoided her because she was too smart.

Things didn't improve in college. Her parents died her freshman year. After that she was preoccupied with getting top grades and a good job. Once employed, she proved to be so confident and secure in her work that most of her fellow workers only saw her as competition. The others regarded her as an evening's entertainment. When they realized she demanded more, they steered clear.

She found the harder she tried, the worse it got. For the past several years, she'd been a nervous wreck around attractive men. She'd stammer, blush, could think of absolutely nothing to say, and would give the world's most inane answers to perfectly ordinary questions.

She supposed it was seeing Nate so flustered by Clarissa that enabled her to work up the courage. When she had socialized, Milly had usually dated high-level executives used to having whole companies under their control. Nate didn't even seem like he had himself under control. She had thought it was charming, endearing. So she'd invited him to dinner.

Now she wondered if she could lock the door and pretend she'd forgotten about it.

No. He really did seem sweet and charming and safe. Besides, she'd been thinking about him almost from the moment she moved into the building. He was the best-looking man she knew. Tall, athletically slim, marvelously dressed in Armani suits, he looked like a model. Actually better. Models were more popular if they had a flawgapped teeth, overgenerous lips, or a chin big enough to set a house on.

Nate was perfect.

His dark brown hair was always neatly cut and perfectly groomed. His deep blue eyes, however, didn't look so wonderful. He never got enough sleep. He was perpetually tired.

She knew he worked too hard. She heard him leave his apartment about the time she got out of bed. Half the time he didn't return until she'd slipped into her nightgown. The guy couldn't have any love life.

Maybe that was another reason she'd asked him. No competition. Maybe he wouldn't notice how awkward she was. Yeah, he'd notice when he said he liked her perfume and she responded by asking if he knew more than twenty different varieties of the acacia tree grew in Arizona, some of which were routinely confused with native ironwood and mesquite.

She'd better get the food ready. She'd already extended the invitation, and he had accepted. Not even a tired, befuddled ad executive would believe she'd come down with something contagious in the last five minutes.

She wished she knew how much time she had. She'd like to take a shower, wash and set her hair, do her toenails, maybe shop for a new dress. That comforting means of postponement had hardly had time to suggest itself when she heard a discreet knock on the apartment door.

He was here, and she was still standing in the middle of her living room trying to decide what to do first. Well, that wasn't a difficult decision any longer. She'd better open the door.

In the five minutes since he left the elevator, Nate had dashed into his apartment, changed his clothes from skin out, doused himself liberally with his most expensive cologne, gargled half a bottle of mouthwash, and unearthed a bottle of blush wine. During that time, at least a dozen different scenarios played through his mindsome sensual, some disastrousbut they all went out of his head when Milly opened her door and he stepped into her apartment.

He could have believed he'd stepped inside one of his own commercials. Every available wall, table, window, corner, and bare patch of carpet was decorated for Christmas. Lights blinked at him, skittered across his brain in a series of flashes, assaulted his nerves with a mishmash of rich, vibrant colors, rendered him numb with their overwhelming numbers.

"Good heavens!" He gasped. The hurt look on Milly's face made him acutely aware of the thoughtlessness of his comment. "I mean, good God, I've never seen anything like it."

"You don't like it," Milly said.

"It's not that," Nate said. "It's just a shock."

"You think it's too much."

Hell yes, it was too much! The stuff she had in the living room alone would have made the Empire State Building an eyesore.

"No, of course not."

"I know it is," Milly said, ignoring his attempt to mend the situation, "but I don't care. I like Christmas, and I like to decorate. Would you like to see the rest of the apartment?"

No, he definitely would not. But since there was no polite way to refuse, he might as well see it while he was too dazed to feel any more shock.

"My family likes Christmas, too." He said with a laugh. "My mother decorates everything in sight. You two ought to get together."

"No, we shouldn't," Milly said, looking a little more comfortable. "We'd probably cause a power shortage."

No joke. He wondered if she'd been responsible for the flickering lights in his apartment last weekend. He was surprised she hadn't tripped every breaker in the building. "Christmas isn't just a holiday for me," Milly told him as she led him down a short hall to a dining room decorated with greenery and fruits. "It was the day my parents were rescued. It was also the day they got married."

They left the dining room and stepped across the hall to a spacious combination study/TV room. An entire nativity scene occupied the top of an enormous desk. Even the lampshades were garlanded.

Nate thought he would be sick.

"Christmas is also my birthday," she said as they stepped back into the hall.

He didn't know what to say. He'd never known anyone who had managed to cram virtually every major celebration into one day.

"We'd better eat in the kitchen," Milly said. "I haven't decorated it yet."

Nate was relieved to enter a bare kitchen. Wood, white countertops, and chrome dominated the room. A delightfully unadorned table sat in one corner.

"I hope you like lasagna," Milly said. "It's all I have."

"Sounds great."

He hoped she was a decent cook, though he didn't hold out any great hopes. Here in the city, he didn't know a single female who had the faintest idea what to do in a kitchen beyond make orange juice or put a bagel in the toaster oven. But even bad lasagna had to be better than salami and cheese.

He held out the bottle of wine. "I brought this," he said, not knowing whether she liked wine, whether she knew anything about it, whether she would approve of his choice. She'd probably think it was hopelessly provincial, but he liked zinfandel.

"Thanks." She looked at the label. "One of my favorites." She smiled with charming shyness. "I don't like dry wines. My friends think I'm hopelessly provincial."

Finally he'd done something right.

Milly took an enormous dish of lasagna out of the refrigerator.

"That's enough for an army." Nate thought of his trim waist, kept that way partly by starvation, because he didn't have time to eat. "I couldn't possibly eat that much."

She laughed. "I'm just going to give you one piece. I cook a whole dish at a time, cut it up into sections, and freeze it so I can pull it out later. I've got whole meals of beef stew, backed chicken, and pot roast in the freezer."

He wished he'd thought of that. But then he was never home long enough to cook, even if he knew how. Which he didn't, unless the food came in a package that could be unwrapped and put in the microwave.

Milly put two sections of lasagna on a plate along with some garlic bread, and put it into the microwave. "It'll be ready in a minute. What kind of dressing do you like?"

"Roquefort." That was stupid. Nobody ever had Roquefort. It was blue cheese or something else.

"you're in luck. I just made some. I normally don't keep it. I love it so much I'd eat it until I get hopelessly fat."

Either she was exaggerating or she hadn't eaten Roquefort dressing in years. Her body was tantalizingly slim and shapely. Her wool pants and sweater didn't leave any question about that.

"Can I do something?" He felt like a fifth wheel, and there were only two of them in the room.

"You can open the wine." She smiled sweetly at him.

By the time he got the cork outwithout breaking it off in the bottle or spilling the wineand poured it into two glasses, she had his meal ready.

"Eat while it's hot," she said. "I'll be quiet. My father always hated it when I chattered away during meals."

"If you don't talk, I won't be able to eat," he said, desperately afraid of silence. "Everybody talked at the same time in my house."

They still did. Especially the children.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"Yourself. I don't know anything about you." He took a bite of the lasagna. "This is wonderful," he managed to mumble around a mouthful of cheese and noodles. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"When your mother is Italian, you have no choice."

There went his theory about the hordes of Swedes lurking in her family tree. He tasted the bread. A little heavy on garlic, but otherwise heavenly. He dived into the salad. The Roquefort was thick, creamy, and filled with chunks of cheese. He wouldn't have cared if the salad greens were oak leaves and pampas grass.

He tasted everything again as quickly as he could. And again. And again.

"I like to see a man who enjoys his food." He looked up to find her smiling at him over her glass of wine. He was eating like a Cossack after a thousand-mile trek across the steppes of Russia. Good impression, Nate. She won't invite you back unless she wants to watch a human vacuum cleaner in action.

He felt himself blush. ''Sorry to make a pig of myself. I haven't eaten anything today."

"Not even breakfast?"

"No time. I overslept."

"When did you leave for work?"

"Five-fifteen."

"What for?"

"I write commercials. Yesterday I had actors, a director, and cameramen all standing around because a client threw out the script. I had to come up with another and get it approved by eight o'clock."

He snagged a mouthful of lasagna before she could ask him another question.

"That's ridiculous. You need time to rest."

"Can't. Have to work through the weekend."

He grabbed some more food. He was beginning to understand why her father forbade conversation. It was impossible for a starving man to eat and be polite at the same time.

"When are you going to find time to shop for Christmas presents?"

If the food hadn't been so good, she'd have ruined his appetite right there. He hunched his shoulders, pretending he had too much food in his mouth to answer. Just to make sure, he took another bite.

"You probably did all your shopping during the summer," she continued. "I usually do that, too. But this year I was late. I didn't wrap my last present until nearly September."

He choked. He had to take a quick swallow of wine to keep from turning blue. He hadn't thought about Christmas presents until a couple of days ago, and he'd put the thought out of his mind immediately. He had two parents, a brother and two sisters with matching in-laws, seven nephews and nieces. That didn't count a set of grandparents, a passel of aunts and uncles, and a seemingly endless stream of cousins.

No, Christmas shopping was a nightmare he didn't mean to stray into again.

He gobbled up the last piece of lasagna, washed it down with wine, speared the final tomato in his salad, and looked in vain for more bread. He could have eaten that much again, but he leaned back in his chair with a feeling of well-being.

"That was wonderful," he said. "I'm surprised some man hasn't snapped you up long ago."

He could have sewn his mouth shut. Outside of being an extremely tactless remark, it was just the kind of sexist opinion that was going to keep him single for the rest of his life. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling his face burn. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

She didn't look upset. Miracle of miracles, she actually smiled.

"Don't apologize. I know men like to eat, and I don't mind feeding them. Once in a while."

That killed any idea he might have had of sneaking over tomorrow for a rerun.

"You never did tell me about your plans for Christmas," Nate remarked. "You didn't tell me about yours, either."

"My parents are dead, and I have no family. I'm going to spend Christmas with my best friend. She was my roommate in college."

"Then who do you buy presents for?"

"Mostly for children in hospitals. That way I never have to stop shopping until I run out of money. What about you?"

"I think I was given all the family you missed. My sisters and brother are married. They all live in Appleton, but they seem to spend all their time at my parents' house. Along with half my cousins, assorted aunts and uncles, and my mother's parents, who live there."

"I think it sounds wonderful. I'd love to have a huge family."

"You wouldn't with them all crammed into the same housebabies screaming, children fighting, and every male in the place arguing over who's going to win the bowl games. It's chaos."

"I think it would be fun. My life was always so quiet and organized."

"Good. You can go home to my parents, and I'll go home to yours. I mean to your college roommate. Maybe she's single and wouldn't mind a husband who never gets home until 10:30."

"She's married, and the mother of three boys. She requires her husband to be home by four o'clock so he can bond with his sons, and she's a terrible cook."

Nate grimaced, then slapped his hand down on the table. "Well, I guess my mother's doomed to be disappointed when I don't bring home a bride this year. But then she's bound to be disappointed anyway. I'm spending Christmas in Aruba and sending everybody checks."

Milly couldn't have been more horrified if he'd said he was sending everybody bundles of sticks and stockings full of coal. Christmas was the absolute best time of the year for her. She tried to stretch it out as long as possible. This man was blessed with an abundance of relatives, ready-made recipients for presents and cards, and he was going to Aruba.

And sending them checks!

He might as well say he was going to knock over the tree and trample all the presents underfoot.

"You're not serious. You can't be."

"Last year my brother and my sister Lucille's husband nearly got into a fight over which was a better football teamFlorida or Florida State. One niece got the flu and went around infecting everybody else. Somebody's kid, I don't remember whose, was cutting teeth and wailed the entire time. No one liked the presents I bought. They were either the wrong size, the wrong color, or last year's hot item but passé this year. I lost count of the number of receipts I mailed off so they could exchange for something they wanted."

"With that many people you're bound to have a difficult Christmas once in a while."

"The previous year my grandmother broke her leg and insisted upon having her bed set up in the middle of the living room so she wouldn't miss anything. She snores something awful. Nobody got any sleep until Grandpa bought earplugs for everybody.

"The year before that, my sister-in-law insisted on singing carols around the tree with real candles. Her daughter got overly excited during the fa-la-la's and set the tree on fire.

"The year before that"

"You don't have to go on," Milly said, grinning. It all seemed so human. Her Christmas tree had always been perfectly safe. She wouldn't have minded an occasional disaster.

"I write Christmas commercials," Nate explained. "All year long I'm developing concepts, working on scripts, buying air time."

Milly adored Christmas, but she didn't think she could stand it all year. "I guess you feel you get a bit more Christmas than you would like."

"A bit more!" Nate shook his head. "By December I'm so tired of Christmas carols and red-nosed reindeer and news anchors trumpeting 'only twelve more shopping days until Christmas,' I'm ready to choke the first Santa Claus who rings a bell in my face and yells 'Merry Christmas'!"

Milly imagined it must be a great strain on him to walk down the streets of New York. There were are least two Santas on every block asking for money.

"You could ask to do a different kind of commercial," Milly said.

"Absolutely not! Doing Christmas has been what got me ahead so quickly. Nobody else has been able to stand it this long."

"Well, you still can't send your family checks."

"Why not?"

"Because it's terrible, that's why."

"Why is it terrible?"

"Because it says you don't care enough about them to spend a little time trying to find just the right present."

"I don't have time."

"At least you've got to give your parents and grandparents something."

"What? They already have two houses full of everything any living human being could possibly need."

"What are they like? What do they enjoy?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me about them."

She could tell he didn't want to. She figured he'd probably hoped to get around to something more romantic. To be honest, so had she. But when he told her he was sending his family checks for Christmas, romance temporarily went out the window. Christmas was being profaned. That was much more important than getting a date, even with a man as handsome as Nate Jerome.

As she listened to him talk about his parents, she noticed a gradual change. At first he was irritated and tended to give her very quick answers. But with a little prodding, he started to warm up to his subject. She guided him toward reminiscing about the good times he'd had with his family. Again he was slow to get started, but before long he was laughing. Once in a while he actually looked nostalgic.

"People should always make time for their family," Milly said. "You never know when you won't have them anymore."

She hadn't meant to preach. She just wanted to make him realize everything came and went. If you missed something once, you could miss it forever. She looked up into his wonderfully blue eyes and sighed.

"How did your grandmother break her leg?"

"Shoveling snow."

"Couldn't somebody have done it for her?"

"Sure, but Grandmother has to do everything for herself. She still does her own Christmas baking. I remember a time just before I started school . . ."

He was off again, remembering the good times he'd shared with the people he loved. If only she could get him to believe they were more important than his job. She had observed, however, that was a lesson nearly all men and an awful lot of women found impossible to learn.

When Nate came to the end of his reminiscences, he looked rather sheepish. "I guess I should send them something, but I always seem to get the wrong thing. Or if I do think of something I know they'll like, I can't find it."

"You ought to make a list and keep it with you. Then, whenever you're in a store, you can look around."

"I can't remember to make lists, and when I do, I forget to take them with me or I lose them. The last thing I want to do with my spare time is worry about finding some present."

Milly decided she'd plagued him enough. After all, it was none of her business how he spent his Christmases or what he gave his family. She was being extremely intrusive. Her mother would be ashamed of her.

She got up and took his empty plate. "Sorry to be so nosy. I've got this thing about Christmas, but I promise I won't mention it again. Would you like some dessert?"

He looked undecided.

"How about a piece of fruit?"

He still had the furtive look of a man being hounded. Great! She had finally found a marvelously attractive man who didn't turn her into a stuttering, stammering fool, and she had proceeded to badger him to death about Christmas. She'd be lucky if he didn't run at the sight of her from now on.

"We can't leave the wine unfinished." She didn't wait for him to answer. She refilled his glass.

"Okay, but you've got to tell me more about yourself. Every male in this building, single or otherwise, is curious about you. Once I get all the scoop, I'm going to send it by tom-tom throughout the city. Tomorrow you'll be swamped by eager young swains as nuts about Christmas as you are."

Which seemed a clear message to Milly that if she ever wanted to see him again, she'd better stop talking about Christmas.

"Well, I'm a stockbroker," she said. "I deal mainly in family portfolios."

His eyes grew bigger. It always happened. Men never seemed to think women could understand anything about money. They seemed to think they ought to confine themselves to social work.

Nevertheless, as Milly told him about her job, she cast about in her mind for some way to help him recapture his enjoyment of his family and, hopefully, his love of Christmas. Having to work on Christmas commercials all year long was a severe handicap. It was even worse than her high school choir teacher's spending the summer picking out Christmas music and all fall rehearsing it. Besides, Nate really didn't have time to shop.

After they finished their wine, Nate said he had to go back to his apartment and play tapes of all the commercials he'd missed during the day. He'd make notes, and tomorrow he'd get up at five and start rewriting scripts.

What he needed, Milly decided after he left, was someone to shop for him. There had to be professional shoppers. You could hire people to do everything else. Only they wouldn't know Nate or anything about his parents. They'd probably buy all the wrong things. She couldn't imagine Nate taking the time to tell them all the things he'd just told her. Probably nobody else in New York knew as much about his family as she did.

Of course! It was obvious. She would do his shopping for him.

Chapter Three

13 Shopping Days till Christmas

Nate wondered why he bothered to pay $3,200 a month for an apartment he hardly used. Why not buy a hide-a-bed for his office and take out a membership in the YMCA so he'd have a place to shower and shave? With the extra $38,400, he could have a vacation to end all vacations. He might even talk Milly into going with him.

He told himself not to be ridiculous. Milly wasn't that kind of girl. Besides, he'd only just met her. It was a little premature, even for a man as desperate as he was, to think about hot, sensual weeks in the tropical sun. Or the snow-covered Swiss Alps. Or anywhere this side of his dreams. He'd better get home, make his notes on the scripts, and get to bed. It wasn't often he managed to get home by seven. Better not waste it.

But he wasn't looking forward to a silent apartment, his own cooking, and no company. Well, he was and he wasn't. He'd seen and argued with enough people today to suffice for a lifetime, but he wouldn't mind in the least finding Milly standing in her doorway, beckoning him to join her. Yeah, right, Jerome. And Congress will put aside partisan politics and work for the good of the people. There might be more chance of Milly inviting him over, but not much. After the way he snapped at her about Christmas, he doubted she'd even want to speak to him.

He managed to repress a snarl at a Santa Claus peddling Christmas candy, bought a newspaper he wouldn't have time to read, and entered his apartment building. He winced. Sometime during the day, the management had turned their elegant and stylish lobby into a scene from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. They even had a hideous cardboard figure of the grinning Grinch holding a little Who-child from Who-ville.

Nate sprinted for the elevator.

One waited, doors open, mercifully empty. He pushed the button for the eleventh floor, breathed a sigh of relief when no one rushed in at the last second, and sagged against the wall as the elevator began its slow, complaining climb to his floor.

That was when he noticed the music coming through the elevator speaker. Some thin-voiced child's rendition of ''Here Comes Santa Claus" in an out-of-tune version that rubbed his already frazzled nerves raw by the time the elevator stopped and he was able to make his escape. He could only thank whatever angel was in charge of such things that they didn't pipe music into the apartments. He would have had to camp out in his office, bed or no bed.

Someone had, however, put Christmas wreaths with large red bows on every apartment door. Stifling the urge to trample his underfoot, Nate entered his apartment. That was when he saw the note on the floor.

One glance at the handwriting told him it was from a woman. For a second he feared it might be from Clarissa, but she was too young to write. Still, the nanny could have written it for her. He walked around it, staring at it as if it were some kind of poisonous bug that might attack him.

By the time he'd put his briefcase down and hung his overcoat in the closet, he'd recovered his wits. He must be more tired than he thought, being afraid of a piece of paper on the floor. Maybe he ought to spend two weeks in Aruba.

He picked up the note and opened it.

Come by if you get home before midnight. I have something to show you.
Milly Thurston

Nate's pulse pounded. His blood overheated. His breath seemed to be suspended. All in all, he felt quite unlike himself. Which wasn't such a bad thing. He hadn't been feeling all that spiffy lately.

Incredible scenarios flashed through his mind. He regretfully consigned them all to wishful thinking. He didn't know what Milly wanted to show him, but he was certain it wasn't a birthmark that could only be viewed after he'd removed all her clothing. She'd probably bought a new string of lights and wanted to know where she could plug it in without blowing all the circuits in the building.

Nowhere. She was already on the verge of causing a brown-out. Con-Edison must be holding its breath. He decided to go before he changed. He could always say he'd just gotten home, had a ton of work, couldn't possibly help her assemble whatever Christmas scene she'd found this time.

Just as he knocked on Milly's door, he noticed that peculiar old lady he and Milly had met in the elevator was standing by an apartment door down the hall. Old Mr. Archibald used to live there, but Nate hadn't seen him in months. He must have moved out and this old bat moved in. She walked toward him, glaring in a manner sufficient to intimidate Goliath.

"Young man, do you know that's the apartment of a single woman?"

Who did she think she was, Milly's guard dog?

"Yes, ma'am, I do."

He tried to sound meek, even unctuous. Maybe then she'd go away and badger the soap opera heartthrob on the seventh floor who was rumored to bring home a different woman every night.

"I don't approve of single men being in apartments with single women. That sort of thing leads to depravity," she warned him, her finger wagging under his nose. "And sin," she added as though additional cautions were necessary.

Judas priest! He was just answering a note. You'd think he was Attila the Hun about to raid some convent. Why didn't Milly open her door and rescue him from this madwoman?

"You don't have to worry," he assured her. "I can't work depravity into my schedule just now. If you come back about the middle of January, I'll see what I can do."

"Godless man!" the old lady proclaimed then proceeded to hit him about the arms and shoulders with a purse that must have been packed with large stones.

Just then, Milly opened her door. "Mrs. Stout! What are you doing?"

"She's protecting your virtue," Nate said, dodging a swing from the hip. "Tell her I'm not here to ravish you."

Instead of disabusing the old harpy of her misapprehension, Milly went off into a fit of giggles.

"Are you going to let me in," Nate said, "or are you going to watch her beat me to a pulp?"

"It's all right, Mrs. Stout. There's nothing improper going on. I'm just going to show him some presents I bought for his grandparents. You can come in and see for yourself, if you like."

Nate was praying the weird-eyed old crone had a cake in the oven that was just about to burn. The last thing he wanted was this crazy old bat for a chaperon.

"I don't approve of women buying presents for men. It's too familiar."

"He doesn't have time to shop. This is the first time he's been home before nine o'clock in weeks."

The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"He has the apartment next to mine," Milly explained. "I can always tell when he's in."

"Young blood is too hot," Mrs. Stout announced, as she marched into the apartment. "It goes to the brain, then heads straight south. It's all sin and depravity after that," she announced, wagging her finger at Milly.

"I don't like sin and depravity," Milly assured her. "Neither does Nate." She ushered them both in and closed the door. "You'll see we're just talking about presents."

But old lady Stout wasn't listening. Nate was pleased to see she was staring, mouth agape, at Milly's Christmas decorations.

"Blessed child," she whispered with near reverence, "it's beautiful!" She sailed from one place to the nextalmost seeming to float. Nate had no idea the old biddy was so gracefulexamining, approving, trilling with delight. She was as bad as Milly. Nate hated to think what the two of them could do if they ever teamed up.

"What did you mean about presents you bought for my grandparents?" Nate asked Milly.

Milly looked a little anxious. "I was in this store, and I saw the perfect gift for your grandfather. I know I shouldn't have bought it, but you said you never have time to shop."

"What are you doing buying a present for my grandfather?"

Milly looked crushed. "I was afraid you'd be angry. I was trying to help, but I'll take it back."

"I didn't mean that," Nate said. "I mean you shouldn't be using your time to do things for me."

"You're absolutely right," old lady Stout said without interrupting her inspection. "Men ought to have to do their own shopping. We women have been covering up for them for years. It's time we let everybody see them for the thoughtless creatures they are."

Nate's eyes widened with surprise at the pointed attack. Milly merely smiled. "Let me show you what I got," Milly said to Nate. "If you don't like it, I'll take it back."

Milly led the way to the kitchen. Old lady Stout followed.

"I put them on the table while I fixed dinner," Milly explained. "I didn't expect you home until much later."

The smell of beef permeated the kitchen. Nothing could make that smell less than absolutely wonderful, not the big red bow on the refrigerator or the illustrations of Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol that covered four cabinet doors. Milly had evidently started on the kitchen. Considering her beginning, Nate cringed to think what it would look like when she finished.

Mrs. Stout went straight to the stove. She checked the roast, nodded approvingly. "What are you having with this?"

"Potatoes, beans, and a salad," Milly answered.

Mrs. Stout smelled the roast again. "Sensible meal. I'm glad you're not one of those modern women who don't have time to learn to cook."

"I have to eat," Milly said. "It helps if it tastes good."

"I mean the kind who's always eating in restaurants." She nodded once again, then turned. "OK, let's see what you bought this boy's grandfather."

Nate was beginning to feel invisible. Mrs. Stout didn't so much as look at him. There were several packages on the table. Milly reached inside one and pulled out a kit for making fishing flies.

"Grandpa doesn't fish anymore. He can't handle the boat."

"But he can enjoy making his flies and imagine how much fun it would be to use them," Milly said.

"I don't know. Grandmother won't"

"The girl's right," Mrs. Stout said, interrupting. "The old coot probably wouldn't go fishing if you'd let him. Much more fun to pretend." Nate thought he saw her wink conspiratorially at Milly, but he couldn't be sure.

He wondered when Mrs. Stout would go away instead of standing here ruining a perfectly good opportunity for Nate to get to know Milly better. Maybe she'd even invite him to stay for dinner.

"I bought something else," Milly confessed.

"What?"

"This."

She pulled out what looked like a piece of rolled up indoor-outdoor carpet. Nate looked blank.

"It's for your grandmother's steps," Milly explained. "It can serve as an ordinary carpet, but it has wires running through it. When it snows, you plug it in and it melts the snow. She won't have to shovel her steps anymore."

"Where on earth did you find that?" Nate asked.

"You can find anything at Christmas if you try," Mrs. Stout said with a sage nod.

"I bought something for your parents, too," Milly said, before Mrs. Stout could start the lecture she obviously wanted to give Nate. "I didn't intend to. I just saw them and thought, why not?"

As she started pulling out more bags, Nate had trouble concentrating. The smell of beef was causing his stomach to growl. Milly opened a box to reveal a rectangle of clear glass with an absolutely gorgeous blue iris inside.

"It's for your mother," Milly said. "How did they get the flower inside that glass?" Mrs. Stout asked, tapping on it with a long nail and giving it a quizzical look.

"It's beautiful," Nate said. "Mother will love it."

Almost as much as he loved the smile of happiness on Milly's face.

"I still want to know how they got that flower inside," Mrs. Stout said.

"I don't know," Milly said. "You'll have to ask at the shop."

Mrs. Stout sniffed. "I daresay they'll tell me some lie. All young folks are like that these days."

"Not all," Milly said. "Nate and I wouldn't dream of lying to you."

Mrs. Stout directed an intimidating, almost supernatural glare at Nate. "You'd better not."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Nate assured her. "Scout's honor."

Her glare became practically eagle eyed. "You ever been a scout?"

"Yes, ma'am. Got my Eagle at sixteen. Cleaned up a two-hundred-year-old cemetery and planted flowers on all the graves."

Mrs. Stout sniffed, in disbelief Nate was sure. Milly looked impressed. He didn't know why he hadn't thought to mention that earlier.

"Did you complete the boy's whole list?" Mrs. Stout asked.

"No, but I do have one more thing."

"Well, pull it out. He can't see through paper."

Nate considered reminding the old hag the presents were for his family, but decided against it. He was certain Mrs. Stout wouldn't think that important. "I saw this hunting jacket and hat I thought your father would like," Milly said. "It's made of a new fabric that keeps the wind and cold out but lets your body breathe so you don't sweat and get sick."

"I saw one of those," Mrs. Stout said. "Considered it for my grandson, but the thing costs a fortune. The boy's not worth it."

"I hope I got the right size."

Nate looked inside. Size 40. "Sorry, my father wears a forty-six. We're built alike, but he's picked up a little weight."

"Then we'll have to exchange it. They had several sizes, but they may not last long. Get your coat and we'll go now."

"But I've got a ton of work to do," Nate said. "And I haven't eaten."

As though to underscore his statement, his stomach chose that moment to rumble ominously.

"Is that you?" Milly asked.

"It's certainly not I," Mrs. Stout announced. "I had my dinner at a civilized hour."

"Sit down right now. The food hasn't had time to cool. I'll fix you a plate. We can exchange this as soon as you're done."

"I can't impose on you again," Nate said, hoping his protest sounded vigorous enough to save him from being considered a mooch but not so vigorous she'd withdraw her offer. The macaroni and cheese he'd picked up at the deli didn't smell half as good.

"Again?" Mrs. Stout said. Her tone clearly said an explanation was required, and that it had better be a good one.

"I offered Nate some lasagna the other night when he got home late and was too tired to fix anything."

"Why didn't he go to a restaurant?" Mrs. Stout demanded, her suspicions clearly not allayed.

"I was too tired to bother," Nate said, becoming irritated by this old bat who now stood between him and his foodand the woman he wanted to get to know a lot better.

Mrs. Stout came over, took him by the ears, turned his head from side to side and up and down until she was satisfied there was no more to be learned.

"Working too hard," was her verdict. "You ought to get married. A sensible wife would make sure you got home at a decent hour and had a proper dinner. What have you been eating, salami and cheese? Look at you! You're thin as a subway pole." She poked him in the ribs. "You need to put some meat on those bones."

If she'd just go away and let Milly dish up the food, maybe he could do just that.

"Give him some of that roast," she said to Milly. "And plenty of potatoes and gravy if you have it."

"I do."

"Good. Don't bother with the salad. Men don't like rabbit food. Where did you buy the beef? If you got it from Sydney's Market, watch to make sure he cuts off all the fat."

Milly felt as if she were in the middle of a sitcom. She'd been worried all afternoon about buying the presents for Nate's family. She knew it was presumptuous, but it seemed the best way to keep him coming back to her apartment. And she wanted him to keep coming back. She'd expected to be nervous and tongue-tied, but Mrs. Stout had taken all the strain out of meeting Nate today. She was going to have to do something for the old busybody. When she'd met the old woman again earlier today, there'd been something particularly appealing about her. Now her instincts had been proven right, and Milly found herself feeling a growing affection for the strange lady.

Milly had cooked the roast with the specific intention of inviting Nate to dinner. She had succeeded, though not quite the way she'd intended.

Mrs. Stout took a fork from the drawer and sampled some of the beef from a startled Nate's plate. ''Well, young lady, you seem a fine cook, much better than the man you'll marry deserves. Steer away from rabbit food and those ridiculous little sandwiches you young people seem so fond of serving, and you'll have no trouble with your husband casting his eye over the fence to see what's on the other side."

Milly thought she heard Nate make a choking noise, but he was getting up from the table when she turned to him.

"Now you two run along and exchange that hunting jacket before someone gets the only one left in your dad's size."

Milly started to clear the table.

"I'll do that."

"I couldn't let you."

"You're not afraid I'll steal the silver, are you?"

"Certainly not."

"Well then, what are you hanging around for? Out, out."

"Come on," Nate said, grabbing up the package and pulling Milly out of the kitchen behind him. "I can feel someone looking at my dad's jacket this very minute."

"You watch yourself," Mrs. Stout said, sticking her head out in the hall. "Don't go anywhere near Central Park. There's nothing there but murderers and perverts."

"We ought to send them Mrs. Stout," Nate said as he hurried Milly down the hall toward the elevators. "She'd clear the place out in less than an hour." He pushed the down button.

"Don't be mean," Milly said, buttoning her coat and putting on her gloves. "She's really a nice lady."

"And Lucrezia Borgia didn't know a thing about poison. It ended up in her enemies' drinks by accident."

The elevator arrived, and they got in.

"She's just bored. She says her daughter and grandson live in Atlanta. It's strange I've never seen her around before now."

"Well, now you can collaborate on Christmas decorations."

Milly sobered. "You really don't like them, do you?" She didn't understand how a man as nice as Nate could not like Christmas. It didn't seem possible, even with his job.

"I'm sorry. I'm sure they're very nice. It's just that I get too much Christmas."

He was trying to make her feel better, but he didn't like her decorations. Her father hadn't, either.

The elevator opened, and they headed toward the door. "You're a cynic," she said, trying to sound cheerful and upbeat. "It comes from battling clients concerned only with how much money those commercials cost."

"It could be," Nate said, putting his arm around her waist to steer her out of the path of a man walking very fast without regard for other people trying to use the same sidewalk.

Milly liked Nate's touch. She wished he hadn't dropped his arm the moment they passed the man. It had been a long time since anyone had tried to protect her from anything. Her father would say it was her own fault, the result of trying to be an independent woman. Milly liked her independence. But despite her lack of success finding the right man, she kept looking for companionship. And love. Independence could be mighty lonely without it.

"It's not as cold as I thought," she said. Uh oh, she was slipping back into the stupid-comment frame of mind. She needed Mrs. Stout to bounce her out of it.

"Not as cold as the Adirondacks," Nate said. He took her arm to hurry her across the street. Milly decided she had to be bold or she might never get another chance. She tucked her arm in Nate's, fully prepared for him to pull away. He squeezed her hand and kept on walking.

Milly didn't pay attention to the streets they crossed, the crowds of people they passed, or the gaily decorated store windows that beckoned to her. She thought only of the man at her side. She liked him. She wasn't hearing wedding bells, she told herself. She was just enjoying having a normal relationship with a man, even if he didn't like Christmas very much. He was telling her a story about him and his brother trying to cut a hole in the ice to go fishing and the ice being so thick their saw wasn't long enough. Didn't he realize how much he loved his family? That was all he talked about. He might not have enjoyed seeing them all at once at the holidays when he was stressed out, but nearly all of the memories he'd shared with her included them.

He might not like Christmas, but he felt the same way she did about family. He clearly loved his and planned to have one of his own when he could get around to it. He just had to be made to understand this was too important to postpone.

He hadn't told her any stories about his work. That told her a lot.

Nate came to a halt in front of Macy's, bracing against the swarm of passersby. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Ready for what?"

"To fight your way through the crowds inside."

"There weren't any crowds this morning."

"There will be tonight."

"I hardly ever go out at night."

"Smart woman."

They entered the store and were immediately swallowed up by the flow of bodies from one aisle to another.

"Let's take the escalator," he shouted over the roar of voices. "We'll never get an elevator."

Apparently lots of other people had reached the same conclusion. The escalators were nearly as crowded as the aisles.

"Now I remember why I swore off shopping," Nate shouted in her ear. He held her hand tightly, led the way through the crowds.

They fought their way to the racks of hunting clothes. They managed to find a jacket the right size.

"It would be easier to switch the tags and walk out," Nate said. "They're the same price."

Milly wasn't willing to risk it. The thought of setting off an alarm and being arrested for shoplifting made her blood run cold. "I'll wait if you want to go home," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's my responsibility."

She felt a little guilty. True, she had done his shopping for him, but it was also true he hadn't asked her to. She was forcing him to spend his evening in a madhouse of overexcited, last-minute Christmas shoppers.

They fought their way over to the cash register. The line was long and slow. Nate spent the next fifteen minutes making caustic comments about the shoppers. By the time they reached the cashier, Milly was really to burst into tears.

"Why didn't you just switch the tags?" the clerk asked. "They're the same price."

"Because we're honest, upstanding citizens who don't want to spend the night in the slammer," Nate said. "Now get on with it. You must have half a dozen forms to fill out."

"Three," the clerk answered, sounding as sour as Nate, "and I have to get my supervisor's approval. You sure you can't wear this? It looks about your size."

"I could, but it's for my father, and he's not my size." "Why don't you bring it back tomorrow morning? We won't be so busy then."

"I'll be working. We're both here now. Why don't we just do it?"

As the clerk grumbled and Nate glowered, Milly got annoyed. "There is another choice," she said.

"What?" the clerk asked.

Milly gestured to all the people standing in line. "We could all get fed up with surly clerks and walk out of the store. Then Macy's would be out of business and you'd be out of a job. Now why don't you get into the spirit of the season and pretend you're glad to have a job even if you'd really rather starve."

A smattering of applause behind her startled Milly into turning around.

"I'm glad you said that," one woman nearly hidden behind purchases said. "I've been running into sourpusses all over town."

"And I'm one of the worst," Nate said. "I apologize," he said to the clerk. "The coat really is too small for my father."

The clerk wasn't as gracious as Nate, but she did make the exchange without further grumbling.

"Sorry," Nate said as soon as they were on the street. "It was thankless of me after you went to all that trouble."

"You don't have to like Christmas. I guess you really can't with your job, but you don't have to ruin it for others."

"I said I'm sorry."

"I know."

"But you're not going to forgive me, are you?"

"I'm trying, but you took all the fun out of buying those presents. I spent most of the day looking for just the right gifts. I enjoyed it."

"I'm not a Christmas person, I guess."

"And you're not trying very hard to change that, are you?"

Milly didn't know what had gotten into her. She never talked to anyone like that, especially not an attractive man. Usually she couldn't think of a thing to say until she got back to her apartment. Then she'd spend the next hour thinking of all the things she wished she'd said.

Well, she'd said them this time, and she wasn't sorry.

They talked about other things as they walked back to their apartment building. As the elevator doors closed on them, Nate said, "I'm sorry I spoiled the evening for you. It was really great of you to buy these presents for my family. They're a whole lot better than anything I'd have picked out."

"Forget it."

They rode the rest of the way up in silence.

"I'll give you a check as soon as I add everything up," Nate said as the doors opened and they stepped out into the hall. "I guess I'd better get the rest of the presents now, or I'll never get them wrapped and mailed before Christmas."

They were being terribly polite to each other. That was okay. She'd been wrong about him. If he went off the deep end over something as trivial as a mouthy clerk, he wasn't the sweet, understanding man she'd thought. He was probably crabby all year long.

She'd get rid of him and never let him cross her threshold again. If he didn't pay her for the gifts, that was all right, too. It was worth the money to learn what he was really like.

She had opened her mouth to say he could have his presents and she hoped he had the perfectly miserable Christmas he deserved when they turned the corner and saw Clarissa standing in front of Nate's door. When the child turned toward them, Milly could see she was crying.

Milly hurried forward and dropped to her knees next to the child. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's nanny," Clarissa said. "She went to sleep on the sofa, and I can't wake her up."

Chapter Four

As they rode the two elevators, Nate told himself he should be thinking about Clarissa's nanny. Instead, he found himself thinking about Milly. He'd thought she was such a sweet, kind woman. Then she'd turned on him in the middle of a store, embarrassing him in front of all those people. He was only trying to get the sales clerk to do her job. Why should she jump all over him because the clerk was a grouch?

He had to remind himself he really didn't know anything about Milly except that she was nuts about Christmas. He'd never gotten too worked up over a woman he didn't really know, but when that woman looked like Milly, well, a man couldn't always control things like that. Sometimes things just happened.

It was fortunate he found out what she was like before he got seriously interested in her. If he ran true to the genes in the family, once he fell in love, he'd get married. He didn't want to be the first one to get a divorce.

God, he was a fool. He'd never had a date with Milly, wasn't sure she'd go out with him if he asked, and already he was worried about having to divorce her. He was working too hard. As far as he knew, there were no idiots or raving lunatics in his family. He didn't want to be the first one of those, either.

It was time to pull back from this relationship that wasn't a relationship anywhere except in his mind. He'd let his imagination run away with him. Or his hormones. Frustration had become a constant state with him. How could it be otherwise when he was either working or sleeping?

The one time he had gotten home at a nearly decent hour, he was called on to deal with a nanny who was probably getting all the sleep he missed. As soon as he got a chance, he was going to fire his guardian angel. He was probably asleep as well. Or if it was a woman, she was probably one of those men-hating angels who burned her bra and dared him to do anything about it.

They reached the penthouse floor.

"Where's your nanny?" Nate asked as he stepped through the door into a world of wealth unlike anything he'd seen before. He'd seen pictures of homes like this in Architectural Digest and in a few slick publications for antique furniture, but he'd never actually been inside one. Unless he was mistaken, that was a genuine Degas over an onyx mantel.

He followed Clarissa along a hall with modern masterpieces and sculptures set in alcoves. He doubted his year's salary could buy any one of them. From the length of the hall, and the number of turns, Nate decided Clarissa's parents had combined both penthouses into one. He found the nanny on a couch in what was clearly Clarissa's suite. He quickly put his fingers on the carotid artery to check her pulse. It was weak and thready, but she was alive. He lifted her eyelids. Her pupils responded to the light. Her skin was pale and clammy.

''Call 911," he said to Milly. "Clarissa, get me a blanket."

"Tell them she's had a stroke," Nate said when the 911 operator answered. "We need an ambulance immediately."

"Help me get her flat on the floor," he said as soon as Milly hung up the phone.

"Why?" Milly asked as she grunted under the weight of the nanny.

"To ensure circulation to her brain and keep her from going into shock."

"How do you know all this?" Milly asked.

Nate put a pillow under the nanny's feet. "I worked as an EMT while I was in college. We were trained to deal with people like this."

"Is she going to die?" Clarissa asked.

"No, but she's going to be very sick for a long time. Where are your parents?"

"I don't know."

"Did they leave a telephone number where they can be reached?"

"I don't know."

Muttering curses under his breath, Nate made a quick survey of the room. No pad with a telephone number. Clarissa's suite had its own kitchen, but Nate found nothing there. It was the same with the nanny's bedroom. He did, however, learn her name was Miss Norma Kincaid. "Do you know when your parents are coming home?" "No. I'm always asleep."

Since Clarissa felt free to wander about the building as late as eleven o'clock, Nate didn't expect to see them anytime soon. He did notice there were no preparations for Christmas. The penthouse was as bare as his own apartment.

"Daddy says it detracts from the art," Clarissa said when asked. "Mommy says it clashes with the furniture."

While Nate realized he would feel very much the same way if he owned an apartment like this, he did feel it was rather hard on a kid like Clarissa. They could at least decorate her part of the penthouse. He didn't see any "art" or "antiques" in there.

"You ought to stay here with Clarissa while I'm gone," Nate said to Milly.

"I can't leave you to do everything by yourself."

"It's better than dragging Clarissa to the hospital. Somebody's got to be here when her parents get home. They're liable to call in the FBI if they find her missing."

Clarissa's parents still hadn't returned when Nate got back from the hospital.

"How's Miss Kincaid?" Milly asked the moment she opened the door.

"She'll be all right. There was nothing I could do, so I left. They seemed to hold me responsible for her having no one they could stick with the bill. I was sure at least one of Clarissa's parents would be back by now."

"They haven't even called."

"Well, you've got to get to bed, and I have work to do." "We can't leave Clarissa here," Milly said.

"Of course not. I'll take her back to my apartment," Nate offered. "Her parents are bound to return soon. I'll leave a note."

"It's past midnight."

"It doesn't matter. I'll be up for hours."

Milly had completely forgotten the videos and his notes. "You won't get any sleep."

"It won't be the first time."

Maybe, but he wouldn't get any work done, either, if he had to look after Clarissa.

"I'll take her."

"You're yawning your head off. You'll fall asleep the minute you sit down."

"I'm hungry," Clarissa announced.

"That settles it," Milly said. "She comes with me. You don't have any food in your apartment."

"I have some cold macaroni."

"I like macaroni," Clarissa said.

"Okay. I'll heat some up along with the roast beef. Does that sound good?" Milly placed her hand on the little girl's shoulder.

Clarissa nodded.

"I can't let you do this by yourself," Nate said. "I'm the one who made her acquaintance in the elevator."

"Okay, bring your videos over. You can work on them while she eats. After that, we can decide what to do next."

Milly marveled at the difference a few hours and one emergency could make. Earlier she'd been sure she never wanted to see Nate again. He was a sour-tempered, unsentimental workaholic. Worse, he didn't like Christmas. But she had seen a different side of him tonight. He might be soured on Christmas, but he was compassionate and understanding. He didn't hesitate to make himself responsible for the nanny. Now, even though he still had several hours of work ahead of him, he was determined take care of Clarissa until her parents returned.

Seeing him as a bumbler had helped her get over her nervousness. Now that she was used to him, she didn't panic when she discovered he was a man who was comfortable being in command, who could be depended on to face trouble, not to run away. He had done it willingly and cheerfully. Okay, so Christmas was a major stumbling block, but he might not hate it so much when he wasn't feeling so much pressure.

Milly decided she wanted to stick around long enough to see. Strong men with a soft side didn't come along very often. Even the best of men had a few flaws. Considering all the things Nate did right, Christmas didn't seem too much of a sacrifice.

"Oh!" Clarissa murmured when she stepped into Milly's living room. "It's beautiful."

"Wait until I turn on the lights," Milly said, pleased Clarissa liked her decorations. She flipped several switches and looked over to see Clarissa staring in wonder all around her. Milly decided to leave her to look while she got the food ready.

The kitchen was spotless. Mrs. Stout had worked magic, and everything was washed up and put away. She'd have to invite her over again. Milly loved to cook, but she hated to clean up.

"Soup's on," she called to Clarissa when the food was ready. The child's eyes were still wide with wonder when she entered the kitchen. "Is all that yours?"

"Yes."

She pulled out a chair, and Clarissa sat down.

"I wish my house looked like that."

"Maybe you can talk your mother into letting you decorate your room."

"Mommy says decorating makes a mess somebody has to clean up later." She looked around the kitchen. Her eyes lit up when she saw the scenes from A Christmas Carol. "I saw that last year," she said. "Nanny let me."

"Have you ever seen "How the Grinch Stole Christmas"?" Milly asked.

"No."

The child had lost interest in anything except the food in front of her. Milly wondered if the nanny had fed her. She couldn't imagine a mother with so little interest in her child's well-being. It would serve her right if Milly reported her for neglect.

She left Clarissa for a moment to go see how Nate was getting along. Just fine, apparently. He'd put a tape in the VCR. Milly recognized the commercial. It was one of her favoritesa little boy rushing out into the snow to welcome his grandparents. Nate was muttering under his breathMilly detected a sprinkling of profanityand scribbling notes without taking his eyes off the screen. She decided to leave him alone.

As she walked back to the kitchen, she thought how unexpected this night had been. After the crisis of sending a perfect stranger to the hospital with a stroke, she had a man working in her living room and a child eating in her kitchen. Except for the fact it was well past midnight, it was a scene right out of American Family. Okay, maybe not the profanity, but the rest qualified. Even more surprising, it was a situation she found comforting.

Maybe comforting wasn't the right word. Pleasant? Yes, but it was more than that. Fulfilling? No, that was anticipating. Well, there was something about it she liked, something that felt right. Probably the company. She didn't like being alone.

That wasn't quite it, either. She doubted she would ever find just the right wordshe'd never felt as comfortable with words as with numbersbut she did know she liked the feeling it gave her. It made her feel part of somebody else's life, and that was a nice feeling.

She'd always wanted brothers and sisters. Her parents had been loving, but their preoccupation with making money had left her alone much of the time. But that was nothing compared to the loneliness she experienced after their deaths.

Or her loneliness as she tried to work through her awkwardness with men. Because she had always known she wanted a family, she had never let her career consumer her as Nate had. She'd been determined to have space already reserved when that special man finally showed up.

She guessed that was why she had gone shopping for Nate. She'd rather do that than let him disappear from her life. Not that she didn't enjoy shopping for his parentsshe'd had a wonderful timebut she'd really been doing it for him.

Which was the same reason she was taking care of Clarissa and letting Nate use her living room to do his work. She didn't want to let him go because she was falling in love with him.

Milly decided she had let a nice suit and a white shirt cause her to become irrational. She had to be losing her mind even to consider such a thing. Not even a full-blooded Italian would fall in love so quickly, and she had a taciturn, Finnish father to balance her mother's hot Mediterranean blood.

The season must be getting to her. As much as she loved Christmas, it always made her feel lonely and vulnerable. Maybe she ought to call her roommate and ask if she could come a few days early. At this rate, she was going to lose touch with reality long before Christmas.

"I'm all done," Clarissa announced.

"Do you want anything more?"

"No." The child yawned.

"Why don't you call and see if your parents are in?"

They weren't. "Would you like to take a nap?" She asked as Clarissa yawned once again.

"Yes, please."

Milly wondered why the loneliest children were the most polite. Maybe it was because they were so thankful for any attention they got.

"Come with me," Milly said. "I've got just the bed for you."

Though Nate probably wouldn't agree, Milly had used restraint in decorating most of the apartment. But in the guest rooma room no one ever usedshe'd let her imagination run wild. Even she had to confess it looked more like the inside of a Christmas store than a bedroom. Every square inch was covered with something having to do with the season.

"Look! Rudolph!" Clarissa pointed excitedly to the enormous picture of the red-nosed reindeer stenciled on the bedspread.

"The rest of the reindeer are running across the sheets," Milly said.

Clarissa pulled back the covers. "That's Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus." They each had a pillow of their own. "You really like Christmas, don't you?" the little girl said with awe-filled eyes.

"Yes."

"So do I."

"Would you like that tree for your room?" Milly had several more. She'd never miss one.

"Mommy says I can't have a tree. She says it spills water and ruins the carpet."

"This is an artificial tree. It doesn't have water."

The child looked doubtful. Apparently she'd asked before and been refused.

"Come on, get into bed. I'll talk to your mother about it."

"I'm still dressed. Nanny won't let me sleep in my clothes. She says it ruins them."

"Well, nanny's not here, and I don't care about your clothes. Just kick off your shoes."

Clarissa needed no more encouragement. She took her shoes off and climbed between the sheets. She giggled. "I'm lying on top of Dasher and Dancer."

"Probably Donner and Blitzen, as well, but they won't mind. They're sleepy, too."

Clarissa looked worried. "Mommy won't know where I am." "I left a note telling her where to find you," Milly said. "I'll take you upstairs as soon as she gets back."

That seemed to reassure Clarissa. She snuggled down under the covers.

"I'll be in the kitchen cleaning up. Call me if you need anything."

When Milly checked fifteen minutes later, Clarissa was sound asleep, one of the Santa Claus pillows clutched to her chest. She looked so sweet, so precious in her sleep, Milly couldn't resist. She placed a soft kiss on the child's cheek. Clarissa smiled and snuggled into her covers.

Milly felt a painful tug of deep longing. She wanted a daughter of her own just like Clarissa, and that had nothing to do with the sentiment of the Christmas season. She wanted lots of children she could love.

Her parents had been certain money would give them the sense of security they so desperately wanted. Milly now had enough money to know better. It was belonging somewhere, to someone.

Her footsteps led her inexorably to the den. The video still played on the VCR. Some cartoon characters were gathered around a table loaded with a well-known brand of turkey and all the fixings. The label kept flashing on the screen. In the armchair, his pen on the floor, the pad slipped down between the cushions, Nate slept as soundly as Clarissa.

Milly felt her insides go all soft. What was it about this man that affected her as no other man ever had? She'd always attracted the best and the brightest. And they were often some of the worst, as well. She picked up the pen and eased the notepad from under Nate's arm. She smiled as she covered him with an afghan depicting scenes from The Night Before Christmas. If he knew, he'd probably wake up in a sweat. She stopped the tape and turned off the VCR.

Poor man, he looked exhausted. He probably ought to view the rest of his tapes, but she hadn't the heart to wake him. He needed his sleep. His horrible clients probably wouldn't yell at him any less if he spent the entire night working on their silly little commercials. It made her glad she worked for herself.

Milly yawned. She couldn't remember being so sleepy. But someone had to be up when Clarissa's parents finally came home. She picked up a catalog that had come in the mail that day from a new company just entering the Christmas decoration business. She wanted to see if they had anything she could use.

She sat down in a chair opposite Nate, and started to thumb through the catalog. She found herself looking at Nate instead of the pages filled with decorations normally fantastic enough to excite even her demanding tastes. Given her choice, she'd take Nate under her Christmas tree and forgo all the rest.

She shook her head. She had it bad. The man hadn't shown any real interest in her, certainly nothing that could be interpreted as more than ordinary friendship. Yet she was ready to turn a friendly smile into a grand passion. If she had any sense, she'd put him out of her apartment and out of her mind before she set herself up to get hurt.

She turned her attention back to the catalog. She really needed something new to go on the mantel in the living room. She'd used the same display two years in a row.

It was after four when Clarissa's mother knocked on the door. She looked like she'd stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue. She made Milly feel positively dowdy.

''I'm Celestine Adams," she announced in a deep voice that harkened back to Talullah Bankhead, "Clarissa's mother. I'm so grateful to you for taking care of her."

She glided into the apartment, her gown of gold cloth clinging to every curve of her lean body. Even at this hour, her hair and makeup were perfect. Milly decided she must have sprayed on a coat of lacquer before she went out.

"How is Miss Kincaid?" Milly asked.

"I don't know. I left Orville phoning her relatives."

And don't care, from the looks of it, Milly thought with a grimace.

Celestine looked around the apartment and frowned. "It's against the building covenants to operate a business out of your apartment."

"I don't," Milly said, having no idea what she meant.

"Then what's all this for?"

She meant the Christmas decorations.

"I enjoy decorating," Milly said. "I'm afraid you've overdone it rather badly. I have this decorator"

"She's done it exactly the way she likes it," a sleepy voice announced from deep in a chair. "I prefer it to that modern museum look you prefer."

"Your husband?" Celestine asked.

"A neighbor," Milly explained. "He took Miss Kincaid to the hospital. He was helping me take care of Clarissa."

"Asleep?" Celestine obviously thought something quite different was in the wind.

"At least I'd know if my nanny dropped dead," Nate said, standing up, "the building caught fire, or a kidnapper tried to get in. You're lucky I don't report you to the Child Welfare Department."

Celestine's mouth dropped open. She wasn't nearly so languid now.

"Wait here while I get Clarissa. I'll tell you exactly what you're going to do on the way up in the elevator."

Milly was determined not to look as surprised as she felt.

"Who is that man?" Celestine asked.

"A neighbor. Clarissa met him one night when she was wandering around the building."

"Wandering around the building," Celestine repeated as if she had no idea what Milly could be talking about.

"She waits for her nanny to fall asleep and goes out for hours. You're lucky nothing has happened to her."

"You've probably set yourself up for criminal charges." Nate had returned with a sleeping Clarissa in his arms. He spoke in a whisper. "If I put this around, you'll probably never work again."

Celestine looked at Nate more closely. "Oh, my God! You're Nate Jerome."

"Bingo. Now be quiet and listen to what I'm going to say. Open that door."

The change in Celestine was extraordinary. She hurried to open the door with all the alacrity of a gawky teenager trying to attract the attention of a muscle-bound star of the football team.

"The first thing you're going to do is get a nanny who's under thirty," Nate said. "This child doesn't need another grandmother."

Milly stood in the doorway, watching Nate and Celestine as they walked toward the elevator. Nate was talking to the once-haughty actress as though she were a flunky, and she was taking it!

They got on the elevator and Milly stepped back inside her apartment. She had to reevaluate. This was a totally unexpected side of Nate. The more she saw of his self-assurance, the more she liked it. And him. His clients might shout at him, but she had a notion he did a lot of shouting back. That thought made her smile.

Nate the brawler. Who would have thought it?

Nate reappeared twenty minutes later.

"I was hoping you were still up," he said. "I need my tapes." He collected the tapes stacked neatly on the table by the door. "I didn't get much done," he said looking at his notepad. He looked a little sheepish, but some of his businesslike efficiency was left. ''Sorry for falling asleep."

"You were tired," Milly said.

"So were you." "I can sleep late."

Nate made a face. "I can't sleep at all. By the time I get these done, I'll have to head for the office."

"Surely you can be late one morning."

"Nope. They don't pay me to take care of old ladies and little girls. That's on my own time."

Without warning, he leaned down and kissed her. It was quick, almost brotherly, but it was a kiss.

"Thanks for the presents. I owe you."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. I'm going to repay you the minute I get back from Aruba."

She suddenly remembered he didn't plan to spend Christmas with his family. But before she could say anything, he'd disappeared down the hall and into his own apartment.

Milly closed the door in something of a daze. The sensation of the kiss lingered. She liked it. It was sweet. But it was the unexpected side of Nate that occupied her mind. He was a take-charge man, not the bumbling, good-natured neighbor she'd come to expect. She'd have given a month's income to know what he'd said to Celestine and her husband.

This man had unexpected qualities she found appealing. Yes, Mr. Jerome was showing promise. Now she just had to decide what she wanted to do about it.

Chapter Five

12 Shopping Days till Christmas

Milly called the penthouse to see how Miss Kincaid was doing. The housekeeper said she didn't know. She said Mr. and Mrs. Adams were still in bed. Milly called the hospital. They wouldn't tell her anything because she wasn't a relative. The nurse did say some of Miss Kincaid's family had come in from New Jersey.

Milly called the Adamses again that afternoon to inquire about Clarissa. The housekeeper said they were busy interviewing for a new nanny.

Milly bought presents for Nate's sisters and tried to stay up until he came home. When he hadn't come home by eleven-thirty, she slipped a note under his door and went to bed. Even after sleeping late, she hadn't recovered from being up practically all night.

She got up early to catch him before he left for work, but he wasn't in. He hadn't left a note for her or a message on the answering machine. She left another one for him. She tried to work, but she kept forgetting the numbers, something she'd never done before. She kept wondering if Nate had gotten anything to eat, if he'd gotten any sleep. She had admired his slim body until she realized it was more the result of starvation than healthy exercise.

Nate needed someone to look after him, to make sure he ate properly, got enough rest, didn't let his job drive him crazy. But maybe Nate liked living like a Ping-Pong ball, forever bouncing around inside a revolving sphere. Some people did.

She wasn't certain, but she didn't think Nate was like that. In fact, she was pretty sure if just the right person knocked him off his treadmill, he would never get back on again. She just wasn't sure she was the right person.

Milly had always known exactly what she wanted. She had worked hard to be independent, but she had never lost sight of her goal. It started with a home with a yard, trees, a swing, and a dog. A cat, too. She wanted lots of children and lots of in-laws who would dote on her children as much as she did. She wanted summer picnics and family reunions. But most of all she wanted a husband who would be home every night for dinner, who would always sleep by her side.

She would be the first to admit she wanted these things because she hadn't had them as a child. That, however, didn't change her determination. But meeting Nate had.

Nate was the first man Milly felt she could love without reservation. She was never nervous or tongue-tied around him. She thought he was adorable. She wanted to take care of him, defend him against a world that would use him up and toss him aside. She wanted to convince him he was worth more than thatto her, to his family, to himself. He wasn't a Caspar Milquetoast. He was a strong man who had gotten caught up in the more-is-better philosophy, the dog-eat-dog-or-be-eaten-by-dog combat zone of commercial advertising. He just needed someone to show him how wrong he was.

But she wasn't sure Nate wanted to be rescued. She began to doubt he could ever leave the city behind. Could she give up her dream for his? Could she compromise?

Milly knew she was in trouble now. Never before had she considered compromise. It had been her way or no dice. Was she in love with the guy? It was hard to tell when she never got to see him.

11 Shopping Days till Christmas

The phone was ringing when Nate put the key in the door to his apartment. He was tempted to let it ring. It was after ten. He'd had two killer days. If he had to talk to another disgruntled client, he'd lose his cool and say something that would get him fired. He felt as he imagined a bear with a very large thorn in its paw would feelready to bite someone's head off.

He yanked up the phone and growled a very unwelcoming "Hello!" into the receiver.

"Has it been a hard day, Natie?"

Nate clenched his teeth. He was certain he was the only thirty-two-year-old male in the world still being called "Natie."

"Yes, Mother, it has been a brutal day. And your calling me 'Natie' isn't helping any." "I know you don't like it, dear, but I find it so hard to change after so long."

"It wouldn't have been so long if you'd stopped when I was in the sixth grade like I asked."

His father's voice chimed in, "Come on, son, you know your mother can't change her ways at this time of life."

It seemed nobody in his family could change anything, regardless of what time of life they happened to be in. He figured he was doomed to be "Natie" for the rest of his life.

"Hi, Dad. How're things going?"

"Pretty good. I wouldn't mind it a little colder, though. I'm not sure the lake ice will be thick enough by the time you get home."

"Dad, I told you"

"I know what you said, Natie, but I was hoping you'd change your mind," his mother said. "Who wants to spend Christmas in a place with a name like Aruba? It sounds foreign."

"It is foreign, Mother. It's an island off the coast of Venezuela. I plan to spend each day lying on a hot, sunny beach. Why don't you and Dad come with me?"

He felt safe asking. He knew they'd never leave the snow of upper New York for anything as profane as sun and beaches.

"Natie"

His teeth clenched automatically.

"you know everybody counts on being together at Christmas. We wouldn't think of leaving. You shouldn't either. They might have a revolution while you're down there. No telling when you'd be able to get home." "They don't have revolutions in Aruba, Mother."

"Those South American countries are very unstable. Just the other day I was watching this news program about drug wars"

"Mother, I'm not going to be in the middle of a revolution or a drug war."

"How can you tell, Natie?"

"Your mother doesn't care about drug wars or revolutions," Nate's father said. "She just wants you home for Christmas. Everybody's expecting you. We might as well not have seen you this summer."

He'd been able to sandwich in only a couple of days in the middle of a flight home from Chicago.

"Dad, I told you this summer I wasn't coming home for Christmas. It's been a tough year, and I need to get away."

"Farther away than Appleton?" his mother asked.

"Yes, about two thousand miles farther."

"It won't seem right without you."

"I'm sending your presents."

"It's not your presents we want, son," his father said, "it's you."

"I know, Dad, and I'll see if I can get away for a decent vacation this summer, but I'm going to Aruba for Christmas. I've already made plans."

"I know you'll change your mind," his mother said. "As it gets closer and closer to Christmas, you'll realize you don't prefer a drug revolution to Christmas in the bosom of your own family."

No, but almost. "I'm going, Mother."

"I have your room ready. Ethel wanted Buddy to have it for the friend he's bringing home from college, but I told her it was your room and always would be." "Give it to Buddy's friend, Mom. I won't be needing it."

"You get some sleep, son," his father said. "You'll feel a whole lot different once you're rested."

"I wish you could come back home to work," his mother said. "They work you too hard in New York. And I still don't trust those gangs."

Neither did he, but he wasn't about to admit that to his mother. She already thought New York City was an urban version of a South American country.

"There're no jobs for me in Appleton, Mother."

"There's the paper, dear, and"

"Leave it alone, Alice," his father said. "Nate doesn't want to live in Appleton."

Nate remained silent. They'd had this discussion before. There was no answer.

"Do you really want to go to Aruba, Natie?"

"Yes, Mother, I do."

"Well, I think it's wrong, and I'm quite put out with you. However, I will keep your room."

If for nothing more than to make him feel guilty. "I've got to go, Mother. I've got several hours of work to do before I go to bed, and I've got to be at the office early tomorrow."

"You work too hard, son," his father said. "I worry about you."

Nate felt his throat tighten. That was the real reason they were so insistent he come home. They wanted to spoil him, let him sleep late, fill him full of enough food to last at least three months.

"I promise to take a real vacation next summer," Nate said. "I'll even come home so you can make sure I don't do anything more strenuous than carry my suitcase to my room. Now I've got to run. If I stand still a minute longer, I'll go to sleep."

Nate had barely hung up the phone when his doorbell rang. It was Milly, her arms full of packages. For a split second he couldn't figure out who she was or what she was doing there.

That rocked him down to his foundations. He'd been so dazed by the pressure of work, so numbed by the long hours, a beautiful woman couldn't hold his attention for even one day. Seeing Milly standing in front of him reminded him quite forcefully there was a whole world outside of work, a world he was not willing to relinquish.

She smiled at him and the fatigue seemed to roll away. The tapes in his briefcase didn't seem so important; the displeasure of his clients didn't seem so ominous.

He smiled back. "I see you've been shopping again." It touched him that she cared. His clients didn't care if he ever ate, slept, or weaned himself from antacids. She worried about what his family would think of him if he didn't send them presents. No wonder he wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her close.

"You can't give presents to some of your family and not the rest."

"Yes, I could." No, he couldn't. He was just feeling out of sorts, and having Milly add to his awareness of the things he hadn't taken the time to do rankled. "Sorry, it's been a bad day, but I shouldn't take it out on you. Come in. Show me what you found."

He hadn't had time to take off his coat. His briefcase and overcoat still lay where he'd tossed them on the sofa. "Let's go into the dining room. You can spread the stuff out on the table." He might as well get some use out of the thing. He'd never eaten off it. Never been home long enough to have a party and let someone else eat off it.

"Did you get home last night?" Milly asked.

"After midnight. It wasn't worth the trouble. I should have stayed at the office."

"You need to come home at a decent hour, eat a sensible meal, have some time to yourself," Milly said. "I'm surprised you don't have ulcers."

"My mother agrees with you."

Milly blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interfere, but your life is crazy. I don't see how you stand it."

Nate shrugged. "Neither do I sometimes. Now what did you buy my undeserving family?"

Nate wasn't exactly sure why he liked being worried over by Milly when his parents' doing it annoyed him. He just knew it felt good. Maybe when he got back from Aruba, before he got buried in work, he could ask Milly to actually go out a few times. After she cleared that Christmas stuff out of her apartment.

Milly's eyes lit up as she showed him the presents she'd bought for his sisters and sister-in-law. They'd be thrilled, and he'd be broke. Milly believed in going all out.

"Now you have to buy something for all the men in the family. They'll never forgive me if you don't," he admonished.

"I don't mind, but you'll have to go with me. I don't have an eye for men's sizes."

"Guess. I'll keep all the tickets and they can exchange it for something that fits. I do it every Christmas."

"That's no fun. You ought to be able to use your present immediately. Come on. It won't take long.''

"I can't. I don't know how you have the time."

"I'm not working more than a couple of hours a day now."

"Lead me to your boss. I promise to be a good and faithful employee if he'll just give me a job like yours."

Milly turned slightly pink. "I don't have a boss, and I doubt you'd like the stock market. You artistic types never do."

"If I could work only two hours a day, I'd like the Devil himself."

"You could change jobs."

"My mother thinks so, too. She thinks I ought to come home and work for the Appleton newspaper. It's a weekly. I wouldn't earn enough to afford my own apartment. I'd have to live at home."

"I was thinking of something here in New York," Milly said, "something that allowed you time for a life of your own."

Nate had started thinking about that, too. But sticking with the Christmas commercials had put his career in overdrive. He'd blown right by half a dozen guys who insisted on going home often enough to remember where they lived. If he could hang in there another five years, he'd become a partner.

"In a few years," Nate said. "I've got to strike while the iron's hot."

"Now you sound like one of your own commercials." She shook her head. "Do you really think these presents are all right?"

"They're better than anything I ever thought of."

"If you'd had time . . ." "No. I don't get into Christmas like you do. I'd buy the first thing I saw and be done with it."

"You make it sound like a chore."

"It is."

"It shouldn't be. You should enjoy it. You're giving somebody something you hope will bring them pleasure because you love them and want them to be happy."

He had to admit he hadn't thought of it that way, at least not since he came to New York. It took time he didn't have. Besides, he'd sort of lost touch with his family. Well, not exactly lost touch, but he didn't know what they liked well enough to know what to buy them. Marriage and children had changed them. As for his nieces and nephews, that was hopeless. They changed every year. "You make me feel like a jerk."

She looked embarrassed. "I didn't mean it that way. I just meant you're supposed to have fun doing it. You don't because you don't have time."

"I should make time. You don't have to say it. I know it."

"That's not what I meant either." She looked upset and annoyed.

"You mean it's a requirement, something everybody has come to expect. If you don't give presents at Christmas, and a dozen other times, it's downright unpatriotic."

He hated the commercialization, everything being reduced to a dollar equivalent. He wasn't so jaded he couldn't remember when Christmas was about joy and hope, togetherness and sharing. Now it was a four-month-long commercial with one objectiveto get people to spend as much as possible. It made him angry to know he contributed more to that commercialization than anybody.

"How much do I owe you?" He cut himself short.

"I don't know. The bills are all there."

"If you'll wait a minute, I'll add it up."

"You can pay me tomorrow."

She turned and started for the door. She was upset, and he wasn't sure why.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he said, following her. "What did I say?"

She turned, her expression stormy. "As usual, you managed to take the fun out of buying presents. I'm beginning to understand why you don't go home. I'm surprised your family hasn't taken up a collection to send you to Aruba."

This was not working. Here he was with an attractive woman in his apartment, a woman anxious to do things for him, and all he could do was make her angry. He wasn't exactly the Don Juan of the western world, but he'd always managed better than this. He must have his head on backward. "Sorry. I'm tried and stressed out."

"You're always tired and stressed out. You don't put yourself out for anything but your job. It's probably a good thing it doesn't leave you time for a social life. You don't really have room in your life for anything but work."

She opened the door, walked out, and slammed it behind her.

He rushed to the door and flung it open. "I said I'm sorry. What else do you want me to say?"

"Nothing, Nate. Nothing at all."

She disappeared inside her apartment, but Nate had the distinct impression she meant something quite different from what she said.

He marched down the hall and knocked on her door. She didn't answer. He knocked harder, but she still didn't answer. A third round of knockshe was actually pounding on her door by nowbrought old Mrs. Stout into the hall. He didn't know how the old harridan got in and out of that apartment so silently. It was like she went right through the door.

"What do you think you're doing waking decent folks up at this time of night? And why are you trying to get inside Miss Thurston's apartment?"

"We're having a fight," Nate snapped. "Do you mind?"

"Yes, I do. Now march right back to your own apartment, or I'll call Security."

Nate hit Milly's door once more. "We're not through," he shouted.

"You young people have no sense of privacy. You'll have people knowing everything that goes on in your lives."

"I don't have any life," Nate said. "That's what the whole argument is about. She thinks I'm selfish, that I'm not interested in anything but my job."

"She's right, but then all you young men today are like that. You haven't the least notion how to make a woman happy. There's not a decent romantic among you. You might as well all be eunuchs. Now go to bed and let an old woman sleep."

And then she was gonehe didn't even hear the door closeleaving Nate standing alone. He felt as though he'd just failed some test. Only he hadn't known it was a test and no one had told him what the questions were. They'd been asked and answered, his test scored, declared a failure, and he'd been left standing in the hall alone feeling foolish. And let down.

He walked back to his apartment and closed the door. His briefcase caught his eye. He had at least three hours' work before he could go to bed.

To hell with it! He was so tired he didn't know what was going on around him. One minute he was planning to ask Milly out, thinking about getting serious with her, the next she was slamming doors in his face and an old lady was telling him he ought to be castrated.

An uncomfortable feeling crept through him.

The tapes could wait. He'd probably work half the night and the client wouldn't like anything he'd done. He might as well go to bed and wing it in the morning. He couldn't do any worse than he'd been doing recently.

He headed toward his bedroom, shedding clothes as he went. Maybe he should get on a plane to Aruba right now. Let his assistant get gray hair and ulcers. He needed to get a life. He was sorely in need of a little TLC, a little feminine companionship. He was thirty-two, considered attractive. Despite making a good salary, he was living like a hermit. No women, no dates. He didn't even get out for a beer with the guys. Something was seriously wrong.

But he couldn't figure it out with his brain feeling like cotton candy. Maybe tomorrow he'd decide what to do. He wouldn't be young forever. If he didn't do something soon, the only female who'd take an interest in him would be a nurse at a geriatric center.

He fell asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.

10 Shopping Days till Christmas

There was someone at the door. Milly wasn't expecting anyone. It must be some delivery service, though she couldn't remember ordering anything. She had just taken a shower and had her hair up in a towel. Oh well, delivery men probably saw much worse. But when she looked through the peephole, she saw Nate Jerome with a bunch of flowers in his hand. Something had to be wrong. It was 1:30 in the afternoon.

Even as she realized she was likely to frighten him out of a year's growth, she opened the door. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Why are you home so early?"

Nate took one look at her and grinned. "I haven't seen a woman with a towel around her hair since I was in high school. I thought everybody used hair dryers."

"I will once the towel soaks up most of the water. Now stop making fun of me and tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. I just came to apologize for last night." He handed her the flowers. "A peace offering."

Milly stared at the flowers. She'd received roses and orchids, but she'd never been handed a bunch of wildflowers. "Why did you choose these?"

"I told the florist to give me something for a traditional woman who went crazy over Christmas and would love having lots of family."

She buried her face in the flowers to keep him from seeing her swimming eyes. "But you think that's terrible."

"Only when I've been up for two days. May I come in? I expect Mrs. Stout to stick her head out the door any minute and threaten to have me arrested for soliciting."

"Only if you tell me why you're home so early. You didn't lose your job, did you?"

Nate stepped into the apartment. He did a double take.

She'd finally gotten around to decorating the vestibule. She refused to apologize or feel guilty. "You didn't think I was going to leave this much space undecorated, did you?"

"It looks very nice."

He didn't think so, but he was trying very hard to be nice. "Stop stalling," she said over her shoulder as she headed toward the kitchen to put the flowers in water. "Why aren't you at the office?"

"I was sent home because I sneezed."

She cut off the water so she could hear better. "I didn't understand what you said."

"The client I was working with is a hypochondriac. He's mortally afraid of catching the slightest ailment. I sneezed onceI don't know why, I'm not sickand he insisted I be sent home. He said he'd finish up with my assistant. He's never even agreed to be introduced to the man before now. Anyway, I was bundled out the door with orders not to set foot in the place until tomorrow." Milly laughed. "You should have sneezed long ago."

"So it seems."

Milly moved a Christmas centerpiece so she could set the flowers in the middle of her kitchen table. She changed her mind, removed some greenery, and placed them in the window. They finally ended up on the hall table after she'd removed a candle and wreath. She looked around for a new place for her dislodged decoration.

"We could put it in my apartment," Nate volunteered, "unless you think it would die of loneliness."

"It might. What are you going to do with all your free time?"

"I decided to take you up on your offer to go shopping. After a little dinner, I thought it might be nice to go skating at Rockefeller Plaza."

Milly couldn't help staring. Of all the things she might have imagined hearing, this would have been the very last. "Are you certain you're not just a little sick?"

Nate laughed. He seemed quite a different person from the tense man she'd come to know.

"I'm not the least bit sick. Instead of doing my work, I went straight to bed after you stormed out last night."

"About that, I'm"

"I forgot to set the alarm clock and didn't get to the office until a quarter of nine."

"Mercy. I'm surprised they didn't draw and quarter you."

Nate smiled again. "My boss was surprised to see me come in so late, but he didn't object when our client sent me home. So here I am, prepared to shop until I hear Christmas bells in my sleep. But you must make one promise."

"What?"

"You won't ever tell anybody I spent my only day off Christmas shopping."

Chapter Six

Milly decided she was either in love or crazy. It had been the most magical day of her life, and all she'd done was go shopping and eat dinner at a little restaurant a couple of blocks from Rockefeller Center. They were loaded down with presents, but Nate had insisted they hold to their original plan of finishing up the evening by ice-skating.

"We ought to take everything back to the apartment," Milly said.

"No. We'll get sidetracked and never get back."

"But somebody might steal them while we're skating."

"Then we'll buy more."

Milly didn't know what to think. Nate was acting completely unlike himself, and she loved it. This was absurd. What sensible woman would fall in love with a guy when he was acting totally unlike himself? Tomorrow he'd revert to type and she'd be stuck loving a man who didn't exist.

He'd laughed his way through three hours of shopping. By the time he finished telling jokes about his family, she felt as if she'd known them for years. When he started on his boss and his clients, it got even funnier. They'd ended up at Saks Fifth Avenue, where he had the clerk and the people in line behind them in stitches. In New York during the Christmas rush, that was something of a miracle in itself.

He'd been charming at dinner. They'd ordered different meals, then shared so they could taste twice as many dishes. He'd gotten her to talk more about herself than she had in years. She'd been worried he'd take her for a hopeless romantic and cross her off his list. Instead, he'd taken one of the flowers from the vase on their table and pinned it to her coat.

Now, oblivious to the cold and the crowds, they were walking arm in arm down Fifth Avenue, shopping bags bumping noisily against their legs. This was exactly how Milly used to dream things would be when she fell in love. She kept telling herself not to be a fool. Nate wasn't really like this. Tomorrow he'd go back to being the angry torpedo.

But now she knew he could be different. What was more, she knew he enjoyed it. No matter how obnoxious he might become, she would remember this day and tell herself things really didn't have to be that other way.

For a no-nonsense stock market analyst, she was heavily into unsound speculation. Her bull market was about to turn into a bear. She could see it coming and couldn't do a thing about it.

''You do skate, don't you?" Nate asked as he guided her to the only empty table in sight.

"That depends on your definition," Milly answered lightheartedly. "I can keep from falling down. But if you mean can I do jumps and fly around the rink at fifty miles an hour, no." "I'll teach you."

"In one evening?"

"That's all it takes in Appleton."

"What do you use, wire cages to support the clumsy ones?"

"Just pride. Anybody who falls down after the first hour is a disgrace to the community."

"Then I'd better never go to Appleton."

"Nobody goes to Appleton. They just leave."

Nate went off to rent their skates and was back in a few minutes.

"Let me have your foot," he said, kneeling down in front of her. Before Milly knew what was happening, he had taken her foot in his hands and removed her boot. He took a pair of socks he'd bought earlier and put them on over her hose.

"I was wondering what you wanted with plain white socks," she said.

"Prevents blisters," he said as he slipped her foot into the skate and began to do up the laces.

It gave Milly the oddest feeling to have Nate kneeling at her feet. It felt even odder to feel his hands on her foot. No one had ever touched her like this. At least, it hadn't affected her this way. She felt almost giddy. She hadn't felt giddy in years. It wasn't the most wonderful feeling in the world. Her stomach was nervous, her muscles tense. Not the best state to be in before going ice-skating for the first time in years.

"Can you stand up?" Nate asked.

Probably not, but she had to try. She surprised herself. Her muscles remembered better than her mind. Nate grinned, pleased. "Give me a minute to put on my skates."

Milly wasn't feeling ready, but she did feel excited enough to try just about anything except a jump. She watched a young girl already on the ice execute a series of jumps. An Olympic skater would be ashamed to do anything so simple, but Milly knew how much practice and coordination it took. She remembered her skating lessons.

She also remembered the bruises.

"Give me your hand," Nate said. They walked toward the ring, their blade guards clunking along the walk. Milly knew a moment of hesitation when they reached the edge of the ice. But before fear could get a strong hold on her, Nate was pulling her onto the ice.

Here goes, she thought. No looking back now.

It was exhilarating. Nate put his arm around her to steady her, but it was unnecessary. The skills she'd worked so hard to acquire years ago started to come back. Before she knew it, they were gliding around the ice as if they'd been skating together for years. She gulped when Nate guided her around a struggling couple. Her foot hit somethingshe didn't know whatand her balance became precarious. Nate didn't slow down. He just held her tighter. A moment later she had her feet securely under her.

"You all right now?" he asked.

"Yes." The wind ripped the word out of her mouth. The cold stung her cheek and numbed her ears, but she didn't mind.

"You ready to go faster?"

"Why?" She felt as if she were sailing by stationary objects at a dizzying speed as it was.

"It's more fun."

"I'm having enough fun."

"No, you're not."

He dropped his arm from around her waist, took her hand instead. The next moment they were going twice as fast as before. They moved to the inside lane to avoid most of the traffic. Even then Milly was certain they were going to run into someone and she would end up on the ice in a graceless tangle of arms and legs.

"I'll have to invite you skating again," Nate said. "You're good."

Pleasure at his compliment warmed her whole body. It didn't feel the least bit like seven degrees below freezing. "I took lessons when I was a kid," she said. "I thought I'd forgotten it all."

"You're too smart for that." They sailed around a young man who'd just taken a fall in front of them. "You probably remember every word your instructor said."

Milly was too shaken over her narrow escape from falling over the young man to remember anything anybody had ever said to her. Nate didn't turn a hair.

"Want to do some tricks?" he asked

"No." She hoped she didn't sound panicked, but that was the way she felt. The only trick she was interested in was staying on her feet until they left the ice.

"I mean easy stuff."

"If they call it a trick, it's not easy."

Nate laughed. "You sound like my mother." With an abrupt move that nearly took Milly's breath away, he was suddenly in front of her, facing her, skating backward! She was certain he was going to plow into a skater any minute, but he seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.

"Please turn around," she begged. "You're making me too frightened to enjoy myself."

"Didn't you ever skate backward?"

"Yes, but on an empty rink. There must be fifty people out here."

"I've seen it when there were over two hundred."

Nate turned around and resumed skating at her side. She gradually calmed down enough to enjoy herself. But she found she was getting tired. She hadn't skated in years, and Nate's idea of skating wasn't the respectable dawdle she'd expected.

"I need a break," she said.

"You're not through already?" He sounded disappointed.

"No, just out of breath. I haven't been on skates in years."

"You'll get your second wind in a minute."

"I got it and used it up already."

Nate chuckled. "Okay, but do you mind if I show off a little?"

"No, but I'll pretend I don't know you if you fall."

"Fair enough."

They skated over to a rail at the edge of the rink, where several skaters leaned against it trying to catch their breaths.

"You've got five minutes," Nate warned. "After that, I'm coming after you, rested or not."

Milly smiled. Nate glided back onto the ice. Even before he finished working his way through the slow-moving crowd that circled the rink on the outside, he'd begun to skate backward. He wove in and out among skaters, going faster and faster. Milly found herself holding her breath. Then before her startled eyes, he did a jump. It was only a single revolution, but it looked fabulous to Milly. He didn't stumble or wobble.

After a couple more jumps, he joined a group of skaters doing figure-eights in the middle of the rink. He peeled off to do a spin right in front of Milly. When he stopped, he executed a bow in her direction. Milly clapped her hands as he skated away to try something else.

"Your young man is right clever on those skates."

Milly hadn't noticed the older woman who'd come to stand at her side.

"He's not my young man," she said before her mind had time to tell her mouth to shut up. "I mean we're not married or anything like that."

"I didn't suppose you were," the woman said. "Married people don't look at each other like you two do."

Milly knew she blushed scarlet.

"They don't blush like that either." The woman's eyes twinkled with merriment. "It's good to see a little old-fashioned innocence. Hang on to it. It makes the simple pleasures so much sweeter."

The woman patted Milly's hand and moved away before Milly could think of anything to say. She looked up in time to see Nate come hurtling through the crowd. He arrived in an ice-spraying stop in front of her.

"You ready to get back on the ice?"

They skated for twenty minutes, Nate trying the whole time to get her to skate backward. She refused. They rested, had hot chocolate, then skated again. This time she skated backward. She expected to crash into another skater, hit the wall, or tumble over the rail, but Nate guided her around without a hitch. He even talked her into doing a slow spin. Despite his pleasone on his knees, much to the amusement of the other skatersshe refused to attempt a jump.

"I'd kill myself," she said as they came off the ice. "As it is, every muscle in my body is going to ache for days."

"It'll be a good ache."

"There's no such thing as a good ache," she said, but she didn't believe it. She felt wonderful. If common senseand fear of falling on her face in front of hundreds of jeering strangershadn't told her to escape while she still had her pride intact, she would have tried that jump.

Amazingly, their packages were still there.

"Undoubtedly the spirit of Christmas," Nate said.

"More probably blind, dumb luck."

"Now who's not in the spirit of things?"

"I plead guilty," she said, too happy to care whether he was laughing at her or with her. "Now take me home. I mean to spend at least an hour soaking in a hot tub. This is no way to treat a body used to sitting in a chair all day, analyzing the stock market."

She put on her shoes, gathered up packages, and followed him as he went to return the skates.

"When I get a bunch of money," Nate said, when they were on Fifth Avenue headed home, "I'll know who to give it to so I won't lose it."

All the way back to the apartment building he kept trying to get her to give him stock tips he could spread around at the office. "A couple of sweet movers, and I'd be in big with the boss."

"A couple of swift plungers and you'd be out on your ear."

"But you wouldn't give your fella a loser. You're not that kind of gal."

He continued to kid her all the way home. Milly didn't hear much of what he said. She remembered only that he'd said he was her fella. Did he want to be her fella? She wanted him to be. No question now. She was in love with him. He was handsome, charming, funny, nice, sweet, generous, kind, and he made her feel like the most fortunate woman in New York City.

But what would he be like tomorrow?

Milly decided not to worry about tomorrow until it arrived. As long as Nate was acting like Prince Charming, she was going to be Cinderella at the ball. Tomorrow she'd worry about the soot on the end of her nose.

Nate peeped around the corner when he got off the elevator.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Checking for Mrs. Stout or Clarissa. I mean to kiss you before you escape, and I don't want anybody looking over my shoulder demanding explanations."

Milly giggled. "Could you explain it?"

"Maybe to Clarissa. Mrs. Stout would never understand."

When they reached his door, Nate took the packages from Milly and set them by his door. "I do my best work when my arms are free." Milly was caught between escalating tension and the desire to giggle. She headed toward her door with the speed of an impala being pursued by a cheetah.

Nate caught her before she could get her key out. "Are you running away?"

There was no amusement in his eyes now. They were dark with something quite serious.

"No."

"Don't you want me to kiss you?"

Milly hardly knew how to answer. No one had ever asked her such a question.

"If you want to."

"That's not what I asked."

He was going to back her into a corner, force her to commit herself. She hadn't made up her mind what to say when the word "Yes" slipped out all by itself. It must have been her Italian blood that betrayed her. Her Finnish side was quivering with indignation. Nate didn't wait for her warring heritages to mediate their differences. He took her in his arms and kissed her quite thoroughly.

Milly had been kissed on the cheek, her forehead, her hand, on her lipsbut never like this. In Milly's experience, most men seemed to consider kissing a duty. It was obvious Nate considered it a pleasure he wanted to prolong for quite some time.

Milly didn't object. Her calendar was open.

Actually, Nate didn't kiss her right away, at least not like others had kissed her. He did put his arms around her and pull her close. She did feel his body brush against hers, but he didn't shove her up against the wall or grind his inflamed body into hers. He didn't grab her breasts or send his hands roaming all over her body.

He brushed her lips with his, lightly, sensuously. She felt the moisture of his tongue, the warmth of his breath. She heard his small sigh of pleasure. His body felt warm, his arms strong. She'd never realized he was so much taller than she was. She had to stand on her tiptoes.

He nibbled at her lipsshe couldn't believe itjust like he was eating petits fours. It sent shivers up and down her spine. She nibbled back and had the pleasure of hearing him sigh again, this time a little deeper and longer. It thrilled her to know she had the power to affect him so strongly. That was a new experience for her, and she found it delicious.

He kissed her eyes. It felt wonderful to lean back and let him pleasure her. She couldn't explain it, but it made her feel positively decadent, like a sumptuously gowned woman in one of those movies where they wore clothes that cost thousands of dollars and still exposed half their bosoms. Where they looked like they felt gorgeous, sensual, confident of their allure.

That was how Nate's kisses made her feel.

"You kiss even better than you skate," Nate murmured.

"So do you."

"Want to show off?"

"I'm not sure." She didn't trust him. She didn't know this Nate. She had no idea what he might have in mind.

His tongue tickled her ear, and she squirmed with pleasure. Her Finnish heritage was utterly outraged, but her Italian side was loving it.

''Where's your sense of adventure?" he asked as he kissed the corner of her mouth.

"I used it all up skating."

"I've still got more," he teased as he kissed the end of her nose.

Milly was growing impatient. He had teased and tempted her long enough. She wanted a real kiss, the old-fashioned kind where boy placed his lips on girl's lips. Nate must have been reading her mind. No sooner had the thought taken form than he kissed her square on the mouth.

There was nothing relaxing or teasing about this kiss. Nate's arms tightened around her until her breasts were pressed hard against his chest. His body pinned hers against the wall, making contact from thigh up. This was nothing like the light-hearted Nate of the last several hours. This was a man who had something serious on his mind.

Nate's tongue darted between her lips. Milly immediately opened her mouth to receive him. His tongue invaded her mouth, indulging in a sinuous dance with her own tongue, circling, touching, entwining, evading, penetrating deeply, making a full retreat, until Milly felt her temperature begin to rise into the danger zone.

She broke away when she realized the low moan she'd heard had come from her own throat. She needed to catch her breath, replenish her strength. She'd never felt so emptied before. She doubted she could have remained standing if he'd released his hold on her.

Nate wasn't suffering from a shortage of breath or energy. He kissed the side of her neck with a passion that threatened to deprive her of her remaining strength. When he decided to torture her ear with the moist tip of his tongue, Milly knew she was about to go over the edge. Even her Finnish side had given in to the languor flooding her body. She felt herself begin to slide down the wall, helpless to do anything about it.

"I think it's time you two went in."

Nate and Milly stiffened as if shot.

"To separate apartments," Mrs. Stout added.

They turned in unison. Mrs. Stout had materialized outside her apartmentsilent as alwaysan uncompromising frown on her aged face.

"How long have you been standing there?" Nate asked.

"Long enough to know you'll get that girl in trouble if you don't let her go."

"Really, Mrs. Stout, I'm not"

"That's what every young woman thinks, if she's got any wits left to think with. Now you go on in. You can decide what you want to do about him tomorrow, when your temperature returns to normal." She surprised Milly by smiling. "It's nice for young people to get overheated once in a while. Dangerous, but nice."

"You sure provided a dousing of cold water," Nate grumbled.

"That's good, too," Mrs. Stout said, her smile vanishing.

Mrs. Stout wasn't going to leave. She obviously meant to stand there until Nate was gone.

"Thanks for a lovely afternoon," Milly said.

"Can we do it again?"

"I'd love to." "I guess I'd better be going." He didn't move.

Mrs. Stout started toward them. "Good night, Mr. Jerome."

Nate sighed, defeated. "Night. Good night to you, too, Mrs. Stout."

"Scram, young man. You've got to be up and about in the morning." She approached and peered at him more closely. "If you don't start getting some sleep and some decent food"she poked a finger into his ribs''you're going to look old before your time. Then pretty girls like Milly won't give you a second look."

Mrs. Stout didn't move an inch until Nate had closed the door to his apartment. "You like that young man, don't you?"

There was no point in being evasive. "Yes."

"I like him, too. But he needs somebody to talk some sense into him. When it comes to men, that's thankless work. Make sure you want the job before you sign on."

Nate was so angry he could have choked the old crone. What did she mean, running him off like he was some kind of lecher? He hadn't done any more than kiss Milly, for God's sake. What did she think he was going to do to her in the middle of the hall?

He wouldn't have minded being invited inside. He'd always thought Milly attractive, but her kisses had electrified him. She didn't stand there letting him do all the work. She'd kissed him just as hungrily as he had kissed her. She might like to hide behind a cool facade, but there was banked fire inside that woman. And Nate wasn't the least bit afraid of getting burned. He'd been living on the edge for years. Playing with fire didn't seem at all dangerous.

He had enjoyed being with Milly. He couldn't remember when he'd had more fun. He shouldn't have waited so long to invite her out. He wouldn't again. He wondered if she would like to spend Christmas in Aruba. She had no family, just an old college roommate. He didn't know. She was awfully strong on Christmas. He meant to ask her. He wanted to get to know her a lot better.

He took all the packages and put them on the dining room table with the others. His family was in for a real surprise this year. If they returned a single present, he'd personally break their necks. After all the trouble Milly had gone to, they'd better love what he gave them.

Out of the corner of his eye, the answering machine caught Nate's attention. The light was blinking feverishly. He didn't even try to count the number of messages. He was strongly tempted to ignore it, wait for old lady Stout to disappear, then see if he could talk Milly into letting him in for a refresher course in kissing. It had been a long time for him. He could use lots of practice.

He wanted to throw over the traces, to escape the prison he'd built for himself, but habit was strong. He reached for a pen and pad and pushed the playback button. Three minutes later he wished he'd tossed the machine out the window. His biggest client didn't like anything his assistant or boss had done for him, and the script for the latest commercial had to be completely rewritten. The client would be in when the office opened to go over the new version. Shooting would start at nine. Nate could feel the familiar weight settle on his shoulders. He hadn't realized until now just what a strain he was under. Milly had enabled him to forget his work for nearly a day. It had felt wonderful. She had been wonderful. It was like escaping from jail. But now he was back inside, the door closed, the key turned in the lock.

He listened to the rest of his messages, went into his office, flipped on his computer, and started to work.

Chapter Seven

9 Shopping Days till Christmas

The next morning Milly found that a check, a key, and a note had been slipped under her door. Her anticipation faded as she read the first few lines.

Hope this check covers everything. If not, let me know. All hell broke loose while I was gone. Will be up to my neck for days. Do you mind wrapping the presents and taking them to the post office? I had a great time yesterday. I hope you're ready to do it again soon.

When? If he didn't have time to wrap presents, he didn't have time to spend half a day with her. He might want to, but he wouldn't. As she feared, he'd reverted to his previous pattern of behavior, working too much to have any kind of real life.

Milly spent most of the morning doing her own work. At least it kept her mind off Nate. That afternoon Clarissa, accompanied by her new nanny, came to see her. She was nearly dancing with excitement. "We got a Christmas tree," she announced the minute Milly opened the door. "You gotta come see."

For the first time in her life, Milly didn't want to see something related to Christmas, but she allowed herself to be dragged up to the penthouse. Miss Avery, the new nanny, followed close behind. She was a young woman who clearly wasn't likely to go to sleep and leave Clarissa to wander the building unattended.

Other than a huge wreath on the front door and a perfectly decorated tree in the vestibule, the main part of the penthouse was the same as before. Clarissa's suite, however, was nearly buried under Christmas decorations.

"She couldn't stop talking about your apartment," Miss Avery said. "She insisted we decorate her rooms exactly like it."

It wasn't exact, but it was close. Clarissa pulled a gaily wrapped box from under the tree. "This is for you," she said to Milly.

Milly opened it. It was a stuffed Rudolph.

"It's for your bed," Clarissa said.

Tears came to Milly's eyes. "Thank you. You'll have to come up tomorrow and get my present for you. I'm afraid I have been very lazy. I haven't wrapped it yet."

"Do you really have a present for me?" Clarissa asked.

"Of course. You didn't think I'd forget you? Nate didn't forget you either."

Clarissa's mother glided in. Milly didn't suppose she had changed very much, but at least she seemed to be more concerned with her child's needs. "Mr. Jerome called me," she told Milly after they'd engaged in the usual small talk. "He wants me to read for one of his commercials."

Nate hadn't called Milly, but he'd had time to call this selfish woman who was so totally absorbed with herself she was hardly aware of her husband or child. He was clearly so consumed by his work he had forgotten her, or had relegated her to the shelf until he had time for her again.

Milly decided she would put Nate on a shelf. She made her excuses and went downstairs and back to work. She didn't need to do any more work today, but it kept her mind off Nate.

But she couldn't work forever. When it came time to stop and think of what to eat, images of Nate and their dinner of the previous evening filled her mind. Nothing she did drove the memories from her mind. She was so desperate she went down the hall and knocked to invite Mrs. Stout to share her dinner, but no one answered the door.

Milly decided to skip dinner. She wrapped Clarissa's presents. After that she did a succession of small, meaningless jobs. She didn't kid herself. She was waiting, hoping Nate would be home when she went over to wrap the presents.

Shortly after eight o'clock, she gave up. Using the key he'd left, she entered Nate's apartment. It gave her an odd feeling to be there. But she soon realized there was nothing of Nate in this place. It looked as though it had been done by a decorator and maintained by a cleaning service. The only sign a real person lived there was the pile of gifts in the middle of the dining room table. Even those had been tidied. The paper and bags had been thrown out, the packages stacked neatly in the middle of the table.

She didn't know why she hadn't noticed the vacantness before. Probably because she couldn't take her eyes off Nate. But it was a shock. It was as though she had seen somebody who didn't really exist, somebody who passed through without leaving a trace. She'd have been happier to find used furniture, bad art, and clothes all over the floor.

Milly told herself to stop being foolish. Just to wrap the presents and stop imagining things. But that didn't help. Every present made her think of Nate, their wonderful day together. She took her time. It was nearly ten when she finished.

She tried to think of a reason to prolong her stay, but there was no reason. It was time to go home and go to bed. Tomorrow she had to start putting Nate Jerome out of her mind.

Nate rubbed his tired eyes and leaned back in his chair. He looked at his watch. Past two. No point in going home. He had to be back before six. He might as well catch a few hours' sleep on the couch in his boss's office. The hour he saved commuting would just about give him time to be ready before the office opened.

He hadn't realized how tired and used up he felt. He groaned as he tried to get comfortable on the couch. This would teach him to take a day off. He probably wouldn't be able to leave the office for a week.

Despite the uncomfortableness of the sofa, he quickly sank into a state somewhere between sleeping and waking. He kept thinking of Milly, how nice it would be to go home to her each night.

He imagined they lived in a big, white, two-story house in a quiet neighborhood. Trees lined the street, and the sounds of children and dogs playing floated from every yard. Squirrels scurried about, chattering in their ceaseless search for food. The smell of moist earth arose from liberally watered lawns.

The moment he opened the car door, three children pitched themselves at him. The last, a pink-faced little girl who was the image of her mother, demanded and got the coveted privilege of being taken up in his arms. Tousling the hair of the two boys who were jealous of their sister, Nate dragged this tangle of humanity, plus two yapping Border collies, toward the house.

He opened the door and the entire scene changed.

Milly was dressed like a Christmas-tree angel. Her long blond hair sparkled with glitter; her white dress had been trimmed with gold tinsel; she wore a crown of stars and held a magic wand.

She stood before him, beautiful and doll-like. Her head and arms moved with mechanical precision while out of her beautiful mouth came the piercing wail of a Christmas tune sung to a rock beat.

Tasteless decorations leaped out at him from every corner of the house, the walls, floors, every flat surface. Instead of hanging on to him, his children were suddenly scattered about the room, ripping their way through piles of presents, immediately discarding each opened gift for the excitement of another gaily wrapped package. Giant television sets loomed up before him, blaring his own Christmas commercials at earsplitting volume.

Nate backed out the door and nearly bumped into a group of Victorian carolers singing about a virgin who didn't have any spots. A brightly lit sleigh and reindeer ran across his now snow-covered lawn.

Nate backed down the sidewalk, but the carolers followed him. He started to run, and the reindeer and sleigh came after him. An actor from one of his commercials dashed across a neighboring lawn, screeching, "We need a little Christmas right this very minute." Santa Clauses converged on Nate from every direction ringing bells and waving collection baskets.

Nate ran faster, dodged between houses, down an alley, and out onto another street, but he could still hear them. Running faster, he cut through a backyard, vaulted over a fence, and dived into a belt of trees. At last, they weren't following. He had come out of the woods into an abandoned field. Trees had grown up all through it. He leaned against a large oak next to a rotting fence to catch his breath.

"Still running away?"

Nate's head jerked up. To his shock and amazement, Mrs. Stout stood directly in front of him, the lower half of her body hidden by the rough grass and tall weeds.

"Where did you come from? How did you get here?" It didn't make sense. Old lady Stout lived in New York. He didn't know where he was, but it wasn't New York. "I can remember when you couldn't wait for Christmas," she said.

She couldn't. She didn't know anything about him.

"I was sent to change your mind about Christmas."

"By Milly?"

"No."

"Who?"

"The Spirit of Christmas."

"There isn't any such thing."

"Yes, there is. You used to know all about it. But you forgot. Let me show you."

Mrs. Stout waved her hand and they both floated up off the ground, just like helium-filled balloons.

"Look over there," Mrs. Stout said.

Nate managed to turn his amazed gaze from the ground below to a young boy running from one tree to another, inspecting and rejecting each one in turn. An old man followed behind, an ax over his shoulder, a smile on his lips.

"That's my grandfather and me," Nate said. "How did you do that?"

"You're picking out the Christmas tree," Mrs. Stout said. "That used to be your special job. You wouldn't let anybody help except your grandfather. You couldn't wait for Christmas then."

"I was a kid. All kids like Christmas."

"Why did you like it?"

"Because Grandma and Grandpa Allison always came up from North Carolina to see us and stayed for a month."

"He was your favorite grandfather. He used to take you ice fishing, skiing, even hunting. You tried to stay home from school to be with him.''

Nate remembered. His grandfather had died when he was seventeen. Christmas had never been quite the same after that.

Mrs. Stout took Nate's hand. Suddenly they were flying through the air. Before he could ask where they were going, he found himself in his living. room back home.

"This is the Christmas you were ten," Mrs. Stout said. "Do you remember?"

Of course he remembered. His parents used to let them choose one special gift for Christmas. Bobby Bright down the street had gotten a ten-speed bike the Christmas before. All year long Nate had thought of nothing but a ten-speed bike. He spent hours looking through catalogs to decide which one he wanted. When he found it, he cut out the picture and glued it to his bedroom wall.

He hadn't slept at all the night before Christmas. It hadn't been a good year in his father's business. The children had been told Christmas might be thin. Nate could remember his joy when he came down and saw that bike under the tree. He actually sat down and cried. Lucille caught him. He threatened to break her new portable radio if she told.

"Do you remember the year you were five?" Mrs. Stout asked.

"That's the year I got Bouncy."

His older brother had gotten a dog that summer. Nate hadn't stopped asking for one of his own. He'd even given up his present for a dog. Bouncy got his name because he never simply walked anywhere. Bouncy had been his faithful companion, sleeping in his room, waiting at the end of the street for him to come home from school, until Nate went to college.

Nate had wanted to take him to New York, but Bouncy had been too old.

Old lady Stout jerked Nate up, whisked him through the air, and dropped him down inside the local church. A Christmas pageant was under way.

"Do you remember this?" she asked.

"Of course. Mama still cries every time she mentions it. And she mentions it every Christmas."

The church and his school had gotten together to put on a production of the Christmas story. He'd been chosen to play Joseph and sing a solo. His soprano wasn't the best in Appleton, but he was the only guy in his grade who could sing the solo without going hopelessly off-key. His mother still had the videotape.

For three months he'd been the most popular boy in his class, but that wasn't the only difference. He'd decided to give his December allowance to help buy food for less fortunate families.

"I guess I forgot a few things," he told old lady Stout.

"You'd better remember them, or your dreams of Milly will never come true."

"But I hate Christmas."

"No, you hate what people like you have done to it. The real spirit is still here. You just have to look for it."

"Milly found it, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"And my parents."

"Them, too. Now we have to hurry back. People will start arriving at your office soon." "Wait!" Nate called, but Mrs. Stout jerked him up and they started to fly back to New York. "Will I get Milly if I change?"

"I can't say. That's up to her."

8 Shopping Days till Christmas

Nate woke up with a start. He was confused to find himself sleeping on a couch. Why wasn't he in bed? Then he realized he hadn't gone home. He was in his boss's office. He sat up, tried to drive the last shadows of the dream from his mind, but it wouldn't go. He was never going to sleep on this couch again, especially if it gave him nightmares like this.

He looked at his watch5:32 AM. Too late to go back to sleep. He might as well go to work. But he was going to knock off in ninety minutes to get some breakfast. He hadn't had anything except coffee since a club sandwich for lunch yesterday.

He had made up his mind about something else. He had been living in such a daze he hardly remembered what it was like to have time to himself, to have someone to share it with. When Milly had appeared offering to help him remember, he had pushed her aside for more work.

Not anymore.

He was going home at five today and every day from now on. Mrs. Stout had been right about one thing: he had let his job take over his life. He would never do that again.

Milly answered the phone quickly. She thought it might be Nate. It was Adele, her college roommate.

"How are things going?" Adele asked. "Have you made us a million dollars?"

"You know I haven't."

"I don't believe you. Brian can't stop talking about what you've done for our portfolio the past two years. Our kids are going to start calling you St. Millicent."

Milly laughed, pleased that one of her clients was so appreciative of the work she had done for them. "How are the little monsters? I can't wait to see how much they've grown."

"That's why I'm calling. We're not going to be here for Christmas. Brian's father has had a heart attack. It's not too severe, but his mother can't take care of him. Brian's already in Santa Fe. I'll be leaving as soon as the kids are out of school. We won't return until they have to be back in school."

Milly expressed her sympathy for Brian and his family, but she was thinking Adele wouldn't have much of a Christmas. Neither would she. She hadn't thought of making contingency plans. She'd never needed them before.

As she hung up the phone, Milly refused to be depressed. She'd invite Mrs. Stout for Christmas dinner. She'd cook a turkey with dressing, the works. They wouldn't eat much of it, but she could give the rest of it away.

But Mrs. Stout was never around when Milly looked for her. Maybe she was going to spend Christmas with her daughter and her second husband.

"I don't much like the fella," she had confided to Milly. "A Texan, you know, about as housebroken as one of those cows they're so proud of. But as long as he's good to my Roberta, I mean to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Milly had to admit she was feeling a little depressed. She gave herself a mental shake. There was no point in feeling sorry for herself. She'd figure something out. In the meantime, she'd better get Nate's presents sent off or they'd never make it to Appleton by Christmas.

She stopped in her tracks. Why didn't she go to Aruba? There was nothing to stop her. True, Nate wasn't the marrying type, but she liked being with him. When he managed to relax, he was great fun.

And if he wasn't, maybe she'd stop being in love with him. Before she got too far along in her plans, she'd better call her travel agent and see if she could get a flight, or a room. The island was probably thick with stressed-out businessmen escaping from the pressure cooker of New York.

The presents were gone from the dining room table when Nate got home. He called Milly to thank her, but he got her answering machine. He wondered where she'd gone. He meant to take her out for dinner. He might say he was thanking her for the presents, but he was taking her out because he wanted to be with her. Besides, he couldn't wait to share with her the consternation of his boss and clients when he had announced it was five o'clock, gotten up from the table, and come home. They couldn't believe he was serious. Or that he didn't mean to return until nine the next morning.

Nate had also made another decision. He picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. "Hi, Mom." "Natie! Why are you calling? Is anything wrong?"

He cringed. "Nothing's wrong, Mom. I was calling to tell you I've changed my mind and mean to come home for Christmas"

"Natie, darling, I just knew you would. Roy," she called to his father, who was clearly on the other side of the state, "Natie is coming home."

"On one condition, Mother. You've got to stop calling me Natie. If you don't, I'm going to pack my bag and leave immediately."

"But darling"

"No buts. You said you wanted me to have a good time. How can I do that if I'm cringing every five minutes?"

"I'll try, dear, but you know how I am."

"I know, but you can if"

"Hello, son," his father said, breaking in on his wife, "glad you came to your senses. Now, when are you going to bring home some nice girl your mother can say isn't nearly good enough for you?"

"Roy, you know I'd never do that."

"There'd be nowhere for her to stay," Nate said, weary of the same old theme, "not with the house packed full. Besides, by the time you got through giving her the third degree, she'd swear off me."

"Natie, if you've got a girl"

"Mother!"

"All rightNatebut I must tell you it sounds peculiar to call you that, like you're not my son."

"You'll get used to it. I've got to go. I'll be arriving Friday night. Could someone meet my train?"

"We'll send Buddy."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled, especially since I'm throwing his friend into the street." "Buddy and his friend are staying at the Saunderses'. They're visiting their daughter in Ohio and were glad to have someone in the house."

"Good. I'm looking forward to giving everyone their presents."

"What? Last Christmas you swore you'd never buy anyone another thing as long as you lived." His father sounded incredulous.

"People change their minds."

"I'm glad you did, son. I can't wait for you to get home."

"Me, too, Dad."

And this time he meant it.

Nate heard Milly close the door to her apartment. He was out the door and down the hall in no time at all.

"What are you doing home?" she asked when she opened the door. She looked at her watch. "It's only five-thirty."

"I'm home for several reasons," Nate said, feeling slightly nervous now that he was face-to-face with Milly. "Number one, I wanted to invite you to dinner. I'm inviting you because I had fun the other night."

She just stared at him.

"But if that doesn't fly, consider it thanks for the presents."

"You still haven't said what you're doing home. They haven't fired you, have they?"

"No. That's reason number two. I decided not to wait until the New Year to make my New Year's resolution. From now on, I'm going to arrive at the office at nine o'clock and leave at five. I'm not going in on weekends."

"They did fire you. I know they did. You're just too embarrassed to tell me."

Nate laughed, and all the tension left him. "I think I remember hearing that threat."

"You're pulling my leg," Milly said. "This is some kind of joke. Only I don't get it."

"It's not a joke," Nate assured her. "Let's just say I did some taking stock and I didn't like what I saw."

"Did it have anything to do with two days ago?"

"Mmmm, you might say that. Actually it resulted from a nightmare I had trying to sleep on my boss's sofa."

"You're sure everything's all right? You're not hiding anything?"

"Why should anything be wrong?"

"You haven't been drinking or smoking something?"

"I'm not on any drugs. What's with the third degree?"

"This is so unlike you."

"I consider that a good sign." He couldn't help himself. He kissed her on the end of her nose.

Milly studied him a moment longer. Clearly she didn't trust the change in him. "Okay. You'd better come in. It'll take me a few minutes to get ready."

"You look fine to me."

Milly smiled. "Thanks. I'll be as quick as I can."

They discussed restaurants while she moved around the apartment doing Nate-didn't-know-what. It reminded him of his mother. She could never leave the house without fussing over at least a dozen things. Finally Milly entered the living room, her coat over her arm.

"Are you sure family-style is okay?" Nate asked. "You're liable to find black-eyed peas on your plate."

"I'm half Finnish, half Italian. What one half won't eat, the other will."

"Oh, I've got a surprise for you," Nate said as he got to his feet. "You're going to be really pleased."

"What is it?"

"It's something you wanted me to do."

"Tell me. Don't stand there teasing me."

"I've decided to go home for Christmas. I'm not going to Aruba."

She tried to cover up her reaction, but it was too late. Nate had already seen his news was a nasty shock to her.

"What's wrong? I thought you'd be glad I decided to go home."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. It was just a surprise, that's all."

"It was more than that. It was a shock. I could see it in your eyes."

She tried to look away, but he wouldn't let her. "Come on, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong. We've got to hurry if we want to get to the restaurant before it gets crowded."

Nate didn't move. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's upset you."

"I'm not upset. Really, I'm not."

"Milly . . ."

"All right. I was surprised, but it's nothing. It's just that I was thinking about going to Aruba. I've never been. I thought it might be fun."

"I thought you were going to visit your friend?"

"Her father-in-law is ill."

Now Nate understood. "So you don't have anywhere to go for Christmas."

"I have lots of things to do," Milly insisted, doing her best not to look upset. "I just thought it might be fun to go to the Caribbean. I've never been at Christmas."

"Would the fact that I was going to Aruba have anything to do with your choice?"

"Well . . . sort of. I mean, you were going to be there already. It made sense to go where I might meet someone I knew."

Nate couldn't help but feel very pleased. If Milly was willing to consider going to Aruba to be with him, things were going a lot better than he'd thought.

"Were you going to leave it to a chance meeting on the beach or the hotel lobby?"

"All right, you miserable, conceited man. I'll confess everything. I had my travel agent find out when you were traveling and where you were staying. There's room on the flight and in the hotel. I just hadn't decided yet whether I was going to do it."

"Will you still go?"

"What is this? Is your ego so in need of building up?"

"Yes. I haven't been chased by a woman in years, and never by one like you."

"I'm not chasing you. I'm . . . following you." She laughed, but she still looked embarrassed. "Okay, I was chasing you, but just a little."

"Are you sure you want to catch me?" ''No." Her answer was unequivocal. "There for a while I was certain I was going to throw you back."

"And now?"

"I don't know. You've gone from being a slave to your job to a man who doesn't seem to have a care in the world. I figure the real you is somewhere in between, but I don't know where."

"You interested in finding out?"

"Maybe."

"Then why don't you come home with me for Christmas?"

4 Shopping Days till Christmas

Nate headed the rental car off the interstate at the exit for Appleton. "Don't expect much," he told Milly. "It's a one-horse town. At least it was until the front half of the horse left."

"This is crazy," Milly said. "I should never have let you talk me into coming. I'll feel like a fish out of water."

"Mother won't let you alone long enough for that."

It had taken him three days to talk Milly into coming with him. He'd harangued her over dinner every night, had his mother call her, his father, his sisters. When they threatened to call in the aunts, uncles, and in-laws, she gave in and agreed.

"Okay, but we have to buy presents for all your nieces and nephews."

"You don't have to bribe them."

"It might help."

But not even Milly could doubt the warmth of his mother's welcome. She shrieked "Natie!" as she ran down the steps and threw her arms around him. "I thought you'd never get here. Was there an accident on the interstate?"

"She's been pacing the floor since morning," his father said.

"He's my baby," his mother said. "I worry about him."

Nate was certain he blushed from toes to hairline.

"Alice, you don't call a thirty-two-year-old man a baby."

"I do."

"It's okay, Mom," Nate said, deciding it was a lot better than some of the things he'd been called recently. "But stop fussing over me long enough for me to introduce you to Milly."

"Sorry, Miss Thurston, but I've hardly seen him since last Christmas. He looks so thin and tired."

"Exactly what I told him," Milly said. "He's promised to sleep late and eat everything on his plate."

"And not stay up late and let you tuck me in with my teddy. I'm a grown man, Mom."

"Men never grow up, do they, Miss Thurston? You always have to look out for them."

"Nate's neighbor was telling me exactly that the other day."

"Is she a nice lady?" Alice Jerome asked.

"She's charming, though maybe a little severe."

"I don't want her to be too harsh on Natie. Men's egos bruise so easily, you know."

Aghast, Nate watched as they walked toward the house arm in arm. He felt betrayed. "Not out of the car a full minute, and she's already plotting against me," he said to his father. "That's nothing. Wait until she gets together with your sisters."

"Good God! I think I'll head back to New York right now."

Chapter Eight

Nate couldn't believe how well Milly fit into his family. By the time she had met his sisters, it would have been easy to believe it was Milly's home and he was the visitor. Where was the shark who prowled the stock market? The woman in the power suit who handled million-dollar investment portfolios like they were petty cash?

"That's a nice gal you've got there." his father said. "Better marry her if you're going to."

"Dad, I told you, she's a neighbor. She's got no family, and her friend bailed out on her. I thought she'd like someplace to go for Christmas besides hospitals."

"A tomato like her doesn't hang on the vine very long."

"If any woman hears you talking like that, you're liable to get punched in the nose. This is the 90s."

"A tomato is still a tomato, and that gal is"

"You're hopeless."

"No, you're the one who's hopeless. I got my tomato. Had her for forty-three years. Best decision I ever made."

"Dad, not everybody wants to get married these days." "That girl does."

"How can you tell?"

His dad gave him a look that said he didn't hold out much hope for his son's intelligence. "Look over there. What do you see?"

"What do you mean, what do I see?"

"Tell me what you see."

"I see Milly talking to Mom, Ethel, Lucille, and my sister-in-law."

His father hissed in exasperation. "You see four married women eagerly welcoming another woman into their midst. They wouldn't do that if your gal wasn't the marrying type. Women know that sort of thing by instinct."

"Dad, you're imagining things. They're just trying to make her feel welcome."

"You've been around those sexless models too long. Not to mention movie stars who don't have the morals God gave a goose. That girl has hormones. She's going to be somebody's wife and mother. If not yours, someone else's."

A good dose of his father's country wisdom was just what Nate didn't need at the moment. The ritualistic mating game was one of the reasons he'd left Appleton. Here, if a guy wasn't married by the time he was twenty-twoa woman by eighteenthere was something wrong with them. And the community made it their business to discover what that was.

But Nate had to admit it did look awfully nice to see Milly comfortably settled in his family circle. She looked as though she was enjoying it.

Except for his father's little sermon on catching Milly before somebody snatched her away from him, he felt right at home, too. He didn't miss the office one bit. Wasn't the least bit worried about what might be decided in his absence. He'd left them everything they needed. If they decided to ignore his advice, that was their worry.

"Let me help you bring in the luggage," his father said. "Your mother has put Milly in your room. You've got the attic."

3 Shopping Days till Christmas

Nathan was feeling a little put out. He hadn't had more than five minutes alone with Milly. He'd given up that first day. She'd been adopted by his family as if she had always belonged there. By the time Milly got settled, met his entire family, endured an endless dinner, and met the neighbors who'd come to give their verdict on "Natie's girl," it had been time to go to bed. With his mother standing guard, he'd barely managed to kiss her good night. It was amazing how uncomfortable he felt kissing Milly with his mother watching. It made him feel like a little boy doing something he ought not.

Nate had decided long ago that the mating game wasn't very easy. Interfering families made it practically impossible. What everybody needed was a clear set of rules. As he lay in bed in an attic room where his mother used to store trunks and suitcases, thinking about Milly, he tried to come up with a set. He kept getting distracted. His dream kept coming back, the part with the big white house and three children.

And Milly waiting at the door.

A week ago it would have scared him senseless. Now it seemed like the one thing he couldn't put out of his mind. He decided to lay out a plan of attack for the next day, but Milly put a spoke in his wheels from the first.

He slept late. By the time he got showered, shaved, dressed, and fed, it was noon. Milly dragged him off shopping, accompanied by his sisters and sister-in-law. She said he had to find gifts for all the children. With Christmas only three days away, time was short.

Not the way those women shopped. They buzzed though every store in Appleton, several more in the not-so-near vicinity, like a chainsaw crew. They tore through toy departments and clothes ranging in size from toddler to adult. That was before they branched out into stuff like camping equipment. They asked his opinion but never paid any attention to what he said, though one of them always seemed to be reaching for his credit card. Nate figured he'd have to work for the next three months just to pay off Christmas.

It was a family tradition in the Jerome household that no matter where everybody ate breakfast or lunch, you ate supper at the grandparents' house. It didn't matter that it took at least two shifts to feed everybody, or that the first shift never seemed to leave the table when the second shift sat down, or that the women sampled so frequently in the kitchen they hardly sat down at all.

No one was allowed to leave the house until everything had been washed and put away. Nate took advantage of Milly's not knowing the rules to spirit her away to a movie. Only he had the misfortune to pick a real tear-jerker. Milly was so busy soaking his handkerchief, he could have necked with half the women in the theater and she wouldn't have noticed.

He had to drive around for thirty minutes before she got the movie out of her system. Then he made his next mistake. It was getting foggy out, so he parked in his parents' driveway.

He sat with his arm around Milly for at least fifteen minutes before she was in a half-decent romantic mood. Their first kiss wasn't very satisfactory. It tasted of tears. The second was better. She was finally getting her mind on business. The third was absolutely splendid. He could feel his toes tingle. He had just readjusted his arms to get a more satisfactory armful of Milly when a series of taps on the windows on both sides of the car shattered his concentration.

Two nephews he suddenly discovered he didn't care for in the least were peering in the windows, making gestures that clearly indicated they wanted him to roll down the window. Muttering words that would never appear in one of his commercials, Nate obliged.

One cheeky little gargoyle had the nerve to ask, "Are you necking with Milly?"

The other nephew, a carbuncle if he ever saw one, immediately chimed in with, "Grown-ups don't neck. Mommy said it gives them heartburn."

Milly went into a fit of giggles, and Nate's chances at the kiss that would knock his socks off went down the drain.

"Was there a reason for this sadistic attack," Nate demanded, "or are you trying to get yourselves murdered before you reach puberty?" "Mom said I'm going through it now," the gargoyle said.

"What's puberty?" the carbuncle asked.

Milly buried her face in Nate's coat and made gasping noises.

"What's wrong with her?" the gargoyle asked.

"She's afraid of puberty."

"What's puberty?" the carbuncle asked again.

"A rash," Nate answered. "You won't like it. It gives you an itch you can't scratch. Especially with nephews peering in windows."

Milly's gasping noises got worse.

"Mama puts lotion on my rashes," the carbuncle informed Nate. "It works every time."

"It won't this time."

"Why?"

"Ask your mother to explain."

That would serve Lucille right for setting her monsters on him. "Do you think you're steady enough to walk?" he asked Milly.

She shook her head, kept it firmly buried in his coat.

"Tell Grandma that Milly is momentarily convulsed. We'll be in as soon as the spasm wears off."

"What's a spasm?"

"You should have gotten the kid an encyclopedia," Nate told Milly.

She hit him. Nate interpreted that as a sign to be quiet.

"Why did she hit you?" the carbuncle asked.

"I wanted to give her heartburn."

"You're crazy," the gargoyle said.

"You'd better run away before I infect you."

"I'm going to tell Mama," the carbuncle said. "You'd better hurry. There's not a moment to lose. The rash might break out on you any minute."

The boys ran to the house. "You can let go of my sleeve," Nate said. "The invasion has been called off, though I'm afraid only for the moment. If we don't appear soon, they'll gather reinforcements and attack again."

Milly wiped her eyes. "Is it always like this around here?"

"Now you know why I wanted to go to Aruba."

"I wouldn't have traded this for a vacation anywhere in the world. I've never had so much fun in my whole life."

"You, young woman, have a weird sense of fun. There's probably some psychological institute anxious to study you."

"Probably."

"I imagine those urchins were sent to deliver some message. Before their mother rearms them and points them in our direction, we'd better go inside. They always say the best defense is a good offense, and I mean to be as offensive as possible."

"Don't you dare. I think they're darling."

"You're a truly deranged woman."

"Why aren't you like this in New York?"

"I'm not really like this. It's my family."

"That's not true. You were like this that day they sent you home with a cold."

"You like me like thiscrazy, demented?"

"You're only crazy and demented when you've been working eighteen or twenty hours a day. You're wonderful when you're like this."

"Cancel all previously stated plans. Let's lock ourselves in and concentrate on how wonderful I am." Milly moved to open the car door. ''Come on. We can talk about your wonderfulness tomorrow."

"You might forget."

Milly's expression turned serious. "I'll never forget a single minute I've spent with you."

Before Nate could recover from the shock of that statement, Milly was out of the car.

"Come on, I bet they're having dessert. Your mother said it was blueberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream. I plan to eat a quart."

Nate had absolutely no appetite for cobbler. He'd just discovered what he wanted was something altogether different.

2 Shopping Days till Christmas

The next day wasn't any better. The house was full of people who seemed to like Milly as much as he did.

When Buddy and his friend discovered she could explain aspects of calculus that had remained a mystery to them all semester, she became a saint. Even Gargoyle and Carbuncle decided she was pretty decent. But they all gave their uncle Nate a wide berth. He was an artsy type, Buddy had told them. He'd run into a bunch of guys like that at college and he wasn't too sure about them.

Nate stifled a strong urge to prove to Buddy, otherwise known as Roy Albert Jerome, III, that not all artsy types were powder puffs. He hadn't played football, as Buddy's father had, but he had been able to hold his own under a basketball net with bigger and rougher men. He had collected three broken ribs to prove it. But Nate wasn't interested in proving anything to his family, just to one blond stockbroker who seemed more comfortable in his own home than he did.

His plans for a day of sightseeing in the nearby mountains were unceremoniously shoved aside. She had more shopping to do, and Christmas was practically upon them. Naturally, she took along half his family as advisers. The president of the United States made decisions of national importance with less help.

She spent the two hours before the crazy ritual of the evening meal hurriedly wrapping the presents she'd bought. After dinner the family piled into cars to see the Christmas program at the local high school. Milly was entranced to discover one of Nate's nieces singing lustily in the angel chorus. A sharp jab in the side notified him she had identified a nephew among the shepherds.

Nate developed a headache that wasn't relieved by the blast of cold air that engulfed them after spending more than an hour in an overheated auditorium. Even worse, he was foolish enough to sneeze. Every female within hearing was instantly transformed into Florence Nightingale. He was hustled home with threats of herbal tea and mustard plasters.

He retreated to his attic bedroom in self-defense. He ventured down a while later, hoping to knock on Milly's door and invite her up for an exploration of her statement of the previous night.

He'd forgotten his mother had hearing more sensitive than sonar. She caught him on the stairs. The offer of a glass of hot milk sent him scurrying back to the attic, where he sat for an hour plotting various plans to kidnap Milly and take her back to New York, where he might have a chance of spending five minutes alone with her.

1 Shopping Day till Christmas

Christmas Eve was worse than any day yet. Nate's grandparents arrived. In addition to calling him "Natie" until he thought his nerves would snap, they asked questions that not even Nate's parents dared ask. Since there was little Alice Jerome didn't consider it her right to know, that meant the closets of Nate's life were turned out for general inspection.

Nate told Milly that if she didn't leave the house with him that very minute, he was going to run away from home. They drove to a park that ran alongside a stream that had cut a deep channel out of the rock. It was too cold for tourists. They had the place to themselves.

"You consider this better than being at home?" Milly asked. She pulled the fur-lined collar of her coat against her cheeks and huddled against Nate.

"The North Pole would be better than being called 'Natie' one more time."

"I think it's cute."

"Nobody's calling you Millykins."

"I'd rather that than have nobody."

"You stockbroker types are all alike. You always win." He pulled her close and gave her a hug. "You have me, for as long as they let you remember it."

"I remember it all the time."

"Prove it." "Leaving a nice warm house to come stand with you in the freezing wind ought to be proof enough."

"I'm the artsy type, remember. We don't have to be rational."

Their kiss was more than satisfactory, but he decided they needed to experiment to make sure they couldn't do better.

They could and did.

Milly cuddled against him. "Do you realize it's snowing?"

"It can't be. It's too warm," he murmured into her hair.

"If those little white things aren't snowflakes, Santa's having a ticker-tape parade."

They didn't move. The snow started to come down more heavily. They still didn't move. Soon the ground was covered in a mantle of white. Nate realized that even though he'd seen it snow dozens of times, he'd never listened to it snow.

He was surrounded by absolute silence. Just as the snow covered all signs of civilization, it blocked out the sounds. Millions of flakes floated silently to earth, transforming the park from a patch of woods by a stream to a wonderland of exquisite beauty. Nate wondered how he'd failed to notice this phenomenon before today.

"Are we going to stay here?" Milly asked.

"Probably."

"In that case, I think we ought to consider hibernation."

"Sounds like a good idea."

Nate's feet were getting cold, but he didn't consider moving. This was the first time he'd had Milly completely to himself, and he was going to hold out as long as possible. There wasn't a single thing he wanted to do more than what he was doing this very minute.

The dumb part was that it had taken him so long to figure it out.

As he wiggled his toes to avoid frostbite, he made a decision. He would go back to his job only if they'd let him work at home and come into the office no more than once a week. He was a writer, not a producer or casting director. He could work alone, interface by fax and e-mail. Then he wouldn't have to live in New York City.

Milly stirred. "Nate."

"Yes?"

"If we stay here any longer, I'm going to freeze to death. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but love is not keeping me warm."

Adrenaline flooding his body banished Nate's cold. "Are you trying to say you love me?"

Milly looked up at him. A snowflake landed on her eyelash. "A woman's not supposed to tell a man she loves him until he tells her first."

"But do you?"

"This isn't the fifties. I guess I can confess. Yes, I love you. I tried not to, but you slipped around my defenses the night we went skating. I'm afraid you demolished them entirely by bringing me home with you."

"Now you want a confession from me, don't you?"

"It would be nice," Milly said, smiling. "Besides, if we hole up in a cave for the winter, I think your parents would consider me compromised." "They haven't given me a chance."

"Nate!"

"I confess it has crossed my mind."

"The night Mrs. Stout ran you off?"

Nate chuckled. "That was one of the times."

"There were more?" She pretended shock.

"Lots more."

"How many?"

"I don't dare confess. You'll think me a terrible lecher."

"It's more likely I'll think you a terrible liar. You're too busy calling stick-thin models like Clarissa's mother to spend much time plotting my seduction."

"More fool me," Nate said. "Now before you start looking for caves, I'd better get you home."

"You never said whether you loved me."

"Evasion won't work, will it?"

"No."

"I hadn't realized it until it started to snow, but I rather think I do."

"That's not exactly an impassioned declaration."

"I'm too cold to be passionate."

"It's never too cold for passion."

Nate caught Milly in a bear hug. "Woman, you've been holding out on me."

Milly giggled. "You just haven't looked hard enough."

Nate's search was so long and thorough that by the time they reached home, his mother was on the verge of calling the rescue squad to go search for them. She accused him of being extremely careless and thoughtless as well. They acted as though Milly were nearly frozen to death. Everybody fussed over her and bullied him until he gave up and disappeared.

He didn't mind. He had something important to do.

Christmas Morning

Milly could hardly contain her excitement. The entire Jerome family was gathered in the family room at the back of the house to open their presents. People were everywhere. It seemed like far more than seventeen.

She smiled at Nate, who'd taken a position at the back of the room, out of the line of traffic. Nate's father had insisted Milly have a place of honor in the center of the room. She would rather have stood with Nate.

She'd hardly had a moment with him since they had come home from the park. What with dinner, trying to find a way to fit all the presents under the tree, singing, playing games, and eating freshly made snow ice cream, they hadn't been able to snatch a moment alone. Besides, Nate had mysteriously disappeared for most of the afternoon.

No one was allowed to open their presents until everyone was dressed and downstairs. The kids ran about shrieking for the poky adults to hurry up. The pandemonium didn't cease until Nate's father stood up to hand out the presents.

Milly couldn't remember when she'd had so much fun. The kids, from eighteen-year-old Buddy down to three-year-old Ellen, oohed and aahed over each package as though they'd never gotten a present before in their lives. They were particularly delighted with the gifts their uncle Nate had given them. He got several hugs, which obviously surprised him. The adults in his family were no less pleased with their presents from him.

"You needn't thank me," he said after his sister Lucille had been particularly teary eyed over a porcelain angel. "You should thank"

"His boss," Milly said quickly before he could mention her name, "who kept him working so he could pay for everything."

"Hooray for the boss!" the carbuncle cheered when he unwrapped a telescope he'd been after his mother to give him for the last two years.

Much to Milly's surprise, she received a gift from each member of Nate's family. Before long she was buried nearly as deep in wrapping and tissue paper as the rest of the family. It brought tears to her eyes. She'd never felt more a part of a family than she did of this one. It was going to be very difficult to go back to her lonely apartment in New York. No amount of Christmas decorations could compare with the warmth of human companionship.

Nate seemed to be opening his presents as quickly as they were given to him. But every time Milly looked up, he was watching her. Milly smiled at him and he smiled in return, but his expression baffled her. He looked as if he'd seen something that surprised him and he wasn't quite sure what to do about it. She didn't see anything baffling about what was going on around her. Everybody was having a great time.

And nobody more than his grandmother when she opened her gift to find the heated indoor-outdoor carpet for her sidewalk. "You wouldn't find anything this crazy anywhere but New York City," she said, but she didn't fool anyone. She was delighted.

Milly gave little Ellen a small package to take to Nate. He blushed faintly when he saw what was inside.

"Show us, Uncle Nate," Ellen cried.

Nate held up a very skimpy Speedo bathing suit.

"I bought it when I thought you were going to Aruba," Milly said. "I wanted to give the local girls a treat."

The room dissolved into laughterthe older generation urging Nate to put it on and give them a treat; the youngsters pooh-poohing the idea Nate could be considered a hunk.

"Uncle Nate didn't give Milly a present," the gargoyle informed everyone in a voice that easily penetrated the hubbub.

"Quiet," Nate said. "I've been saving it until last." He picked up a huge box from the hall and set it in front of Milly.

"Golly," one of his nieces said, her eyes wide in astonishment, "nobody got anything as big as that."

Milly's heart was thumping in her chest. She hadn't been entirely sure Nate would remember to buy her a present. She'd expected, if he did, he would give it to her in private. She couldn't imagine what was in the box. If it contained so much as one Christmas decoration for her apartment, she was going to hit him with it.

"There's another box inside," the niece cried happily when Milly had opened the first box.

"He probably got her something real tiny and tried to disguise it by putting it in a whole lot of boxes," the gargoyle said. "You got me," Nate said with a grin. "I guess your mind is as devious as mine."

"You wrapped the boxes so beautifully," his mother said.

"Not guilty," Nate said, his good spirits unimpaired. "You have to blame a nice old lady at the store."

"Which lady?" Lucille asked with apparent innocence.

But Nate knew she knew who worked in every store in town. She'd know immediately what his present was.

"I forget," Nate said as Milly opened the third box.

"You don't forget anything," Lucille said.

"Yes, I do," Nate said. "I nearly forgot something very important."

Milly looked up. Nate's eyes told her he was talking to her, that all the rest of the people might as well have left the room.

"Hurry up and open the next box," the carbuncle urged.

Milly opened the fifth and sixth boxes and drew out a small box.

Milly could only stare at Nate.

"I told you it was tiny," the gargoyle crowed.

His mother put her hand over his mouth and pulled him to her side. "I have a feeling there's something very big in that box."

"Can't be," the gargoyle said, freeing his mouth. "It's no bigger than three inches."

His father clapped his hand over the gargoyle's mouth this time.

"Go on, open it," Nate's mother said. "I'm dying to see what it is." But Milly couldn't move. She knew what must be in that box, what had to be there, but she couldn't believe it. If she was wrong, she'd absolutely die.

''Go ahead," Nate said. "Put Mother out of her misery."

Milly removed the plain gold paper from a small black box. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt. She didn't think she could bear to look. She closed her eyes and raised the lid.

"It's just a ring," Carbuncle said.

Milly opened her eyes. It was just a ring, but it was the most beautiful diamond ring she'd ever seen. Before she knew it, tears were streaming down her cheeks. She looked at Nate, who'd come to kneel down on the floor in front of her.

"Happy birthday?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Milly answered, laughing and crying at once. "Yes, yes, yes."

Epilogue

Milly knocked on the door of apartment of 1102. "I can't wait to see Mrs. Stout's face when we tell her we're engaged."

"She'll probably stand guard outside your apartment until we're married," Nate replied. He still hadn't made up his mind to tell her about his dream. She'd probably say he was crazy and try to convince Milly to throw him over.

"You'd better knock again," Nate said when no one answered. "Maybe she's in Georgia." He smiled at the thought.

The door was opened by a little old man, Mr. Archibald.

"I thought you'd moved," Nate exclaimed.

"Why should you think that?" Mr. Archibald asked, only mildly interested.

"A crusty old woman lives here."

"Must be the next apartment."

"No, it's this one," Milly said. "I saw her go in several times."

"Couldn't have. Nothing's been stolen," Mr. Archibald said.

"Mrs. Stout wouldn't steal," Milly said.

"Then what was she doing in my apartment?" "Living there."

"No, she wasn't. I live here."

"I haven't seen you in months," Nate said.

"I've been visiting my daughter. The apartment's been closed up. It still smells stale."

"I saw her go into this apartment," Nate insisted. "A little old lady, iron gray hair and a tongue as sharp as a sword."

"Did you hire a cleaning service?" Milly asked.

"Her name was Mrs. Stout," Nate said. "Native New Yorker. Doesn't trust anybody born below the Mason-Dixon line."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mr. Archibald said, "There was an old woman who lived here before me. Come to think of it, her name was Stout. Her daughter married a Texan. Didn't like him a bit."

"That's her," Nate exclaimed.

"Can't be. She died two years ago."

Apparently considering the problem solved, Mr. Archibald stepped back inside his apartment and closed the door. Nate stared openmouthed at Milly. "You don't think . . ." he started. "I mean, she couldn't be . . . Nah, there's no such thing."

With a grin Nate considered much too self-satisfied, Milly hooked her arm in his. "Never underestimate the power of the Christmas spirit." Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him. "Or love."

CHRISTMAS PRESENT

ELAINE FOX To Andrew, for reminding me how it feels.

Chapter One

Snowflakes spiraled into the headlights of Susannah Murphy's car; tiny, dizzying drops of light that made it seem as if the Volvo moved much faster than its actual 15 mph crawl.

"Come on . . . come on," Susannah muttered, hunched forward over the steering wheel. "One more hill and then we can coast into Crossport."

The wheels spun wildly for a split secondSusannah's stomach plummetedthen caught and pulled the car forward again up the incline.

The Volvo's headlights illuminated a narrow path between the dark walls of pine trees on either side of the roadway. Creepy, she thought. Why didn't I remember how remote this place felt? She rounded a curve and the headlights flashed across the snowladen arms of the huge trees, making them look like giant old ladies in heavy white shawls.

"You should have visited your father earlier. Last Christmas, or even the Christmas before," she imagined one saying, its reedy voice crackling with age and disapproval. "Now, God only knows if he'll recognize you."

Susannah grimaced. It would sound just like her mother, of course, the drama queen of Crossport, Maine. She'd called Susannah in a panic two weeks earlier to beg her to come home for Christmas and used that exact resigned and judgmental tone.

"It's your father," she'd confessed in a longsuffering voice once Susannah had played the game and dragged it out of her. "He's losing his mind."

"What?" Susannah had expelled the word more in exasperation than shock.

"Now don't get alarmed," her mother had said, taking the opportunity to appear reasonable. "The doctor said it's not necessarily Alzheimer's."

Alzheimer's. The word sent an involuntary shiver through her. "Mother, what's going on? What's he done? Is he forgetting things?"

"Well, yes, that's part of it. The other day he couldn't remember where he'd left his glasses. 'Where are my glasses?' he's bellowing all over the house, stirring us all up, making everyone drop everything to go look for his blasted glasses"

"Mother." Susannah exhaled. "He's always done that. He could never keep track of those things. Those and his keys."

"Well, this timelo and beholdwe find them in his pocket. Right there in his breast pocket! The whole time! But that's not the worst of it," she added.

"What's the worst of it?" Susannah picked up a pen and began coloring in the Os on the cover of the phone book.

"He's begun talking . . ."

"Talking?" She rummaged through the drawer beneath the phone for a felt-tip pen.

" . . . to someone who's not there."

Susannah's hand stopped combing through the drawer and she rolled her eyes. "You mean he talks to himself."

"No." The word stretched blackly over the phone line. "He claims he's talking to a man, but none of us have ever seen him. Your father says he disappears as soon as someone else comes in the room."

"He disappears."

"That's what he says."

"Pop says that. That the man 'disappears' when you come into the room."

"Mm-hm," her mother confirmed, smugly, Susannah thought. "Now do you believe me?"

In the end, Susannah had decided the story was too weird for even her mother to have made up. Not that she believed her father talked to imaginary peoplethough living with her mother, she wouldn't blame him if he didbut something was going on with them. Something she might be able to help, if only by importing a little sanity from the outside world.

Besides, she hadn't been back to Crossportthe impossibly small, unforgivably backward town she'd grown up insince Christmas three years ago. Which had, she reminded herself, been an unqualified disaster. Starting with the theft of her Christmas presents at a rest stop in Massachusetts and ending with her sister's oldest boy torching the Christmas tree with his Hyper Laser Bullet Boyor some similarly titled action figure.

Susannah shook her head, remembering. Christmas, she thought, is nothing but an enormous pain in the neck.

She'd vowed then not to come back until she'd had kids of her own to combat the chaos with. She took a deep breath. Well, it didn't look like that was going to happen anytime soon. Especially since she'd just broken up with her latest, most promising prospect, Dr. Kenneth Freed. Her mother was going to kill her when she found out. She'd been so excited at the thought of having a doctor in the family.

Susannah was swept out of her reverie when the Volvo's engine whined in sudden freedom as the car's wheels lost traction again. She lifted her foot from the accelerator, gained control, and slowly pushed it down again. Resistance free, the wheels spun in rapid impotence, grabbing at nothing. Susannah felt the car begin to slide gracefully sideways. Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, she turned it furiously the other way. The car eased back to face forward with the infuriating responsiveness of a boat.

She straightened the wheel, inhaled deeply, and tried the accelerator again, squinting into the oncoming snow. The sight of it was making her nauseous, she decided, then let out a breath as the wheels took hold again.

She couldn't quite tellit was just the snow disorienting her, she told herselfbut she thought if she made it over this rise, the rest of the road into Crossport was mostly downhill. She'd pass the Crandalls' orchard, the Simmonses' farm, then she'd cross Kettle Creek and snake through the panhandle of the wilderness preserve to come out on the back side of the town square. Where, she knew without a doubt, the gazebo would be surrounded by a temporary ice-skating rink, and the huge pine in front of the hardware store would be sprinkled with Christmas lights. If it weren't so late, she'd probably find her sister, her sister's husband, and their three boys skating to the scratchy, PA-enhanced version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" Caroline always requested.

Susannah smiled and shook her head. Though she gave Caroline a lot of grief for staying in Crossport and marrying her high-school sweetheart, there was something about the predictable continuity of her sister's life that comforted Susannah. Her own life was so hectic that her sister's seemed almost pastoral by comparison.

With a sigh of relief, she crested the snow-slick hill and pulled her foot from the accelerator. The car rolled gently down the slope.

"Easy . . ." she murmured, braking around a curve. The car righted itself and continued silently down the white slice of road between the trees. Snowflakes dashed at her windshield as the car gathered speed, and she glanced at the speedometer, laughing slightly. Twenty-five mph. And she felt as though she'd been going fifty.

"Music," she said brightly, passing the Simmonses' abandoned silo. "That's the problem. It's too quiet."

She glanced at the lower dash and flipped on the radio. Static exploded from the speakers and she searched for the National Public Radio station she knew would have Christmas music. If it played "I'll Be Home for Christmas," she thought, she'd take it as a sign that she'd made the right decision in coming. But as she zeroed in on the station it was "Blue Christmas" that greeted her ears.

She chuckled wryly and raised her eyes to the roadjust in time to see a man in a bright red, furtrimmed parka step into the road from the trees.

Susannah gasped and slammed her foot on the brake. The back wheels slid sideways. She jerked the wheel hard to the right but the car continued forward. Spinning the steering wheel left, she slapped her palm to the horn as hard as she could, then watched in helpless horror as the car spun sideways and slid inexorably toward the hapless pedestrian.

''Get out of the way!" she shouted, pounding on the horn. It seemed she moved in slow motion, but still the man ignored her. "Oh, my God." He shuffled onward, directly into her path, and she down-shifted into first.

The back end coasted around to the front, spinning the car into a neat pirouette. Susannah closed her eyes and clutched the wheel with both hands, waiting for the inevitable, sickening thump of bumper hitting parka. But as Elvis crooned " . . . have a blue . . . blue-blue-blue Christmas," the Volvo completed its circle unhampered, then drifted toward the side of the road.

Opening her eyes, she jerked her head sideways to search for the man. Snow swirled and eddied around the still-sliding car. She couldn't see him. Maybe he'd been knocked into a drift. But she hadn't felt the car hit him.

Just as she had the thought, the rear end of the car collided with something hard. Metal crunched and crumpled, and the graceful motion came to an abrupt halt. A second of inertia followed. Then the car tipped backward, lifting the nose upward about thirty degrees as metal squealed and snow crunched. Her breath left her in an oof as she was thrown hard onto the seatback.

She'd slid into a ditch, she realized, as her head knocked back against the headrest. Another moment of suspended motion ended when the whole car shifted sideways and came to a final resting place with the pop of denting door metal against the trunk of a tree.

She sat and breathed heavily for a long moment, feeling adrenaline careen through her veins. Then she scrambled across the console to the passenger side. Shoving open the door, she fell back against the gearshift, only to have the door slam back in her face. She turned and pushed it open with her legs, then heaved herself out into a drift of snow deep enough to reach her thighs.

Swearing, she pulled her long, camel-hair coat around her more tightly. From the hip down, the coat lay on top of the bank of snow. She could already feel the sting of cold through her suede ankle boots and thin leggings.

"Hello?" she called, marching upward through the snow. The car's headlights shot up into the night, making the sky a panorama of dizzying flakes. She should have turned off the engine, she thought stupidly. But she needed to find the man in the ridiculous red parka.

"Are you there?" she called again. Her voice sounded very small in the silent world, absorbed immediately into the white ice and black night.

She trudged around the car, looked in the back to confirm that the collision she'd heard had been with the trunk of a large pine tree and not a man in a parka, then scrabbled up to the road. In the light from the headlight beams, she saw the rapidly filling gouges of her car's path in the snow. But she saw no man in a red parka lying hurt in the road, and she could find no footprints.

Backtracking up the road, she searched for the point at which she'd seen him emerge from the trees. But even there she could find no footprints, nor any evidence of there ever having been anyone at all.

Snowflakes pecked against her skin like furious bugs. She drew her scarf from inside her coat and tied it over her head.

"Where are you?" she yelled, angry now that whoever it was had caused this accident and disappeared. Her toes were already going numb and her hands were frigid in the thin driving gloves. "Dammit, answer me! What am I supposed to do now?"

She turned in the snowy road. Silence greeted her question. She could hear the low hum of the Volvo in the ditch and marched back down the road to turn it off. After climbing in the passenger side and turning the key, she sat in the wet leather seat and seethed.

He could have at least offered to go call for help, she thought, wondering if she should try to find him and follow him. She imagined the litany of accusatory things she would say when she caught up to himrevised them, spiced them up, then admitted to herself that she'd probably sputter in impotent anger and then be murdered by him, as he was obviously deranged to be out walking on a night like this.

She exhaled heavily. In any case, he'd looked too old to be able to help her in any significant way like pushing her car out of the ditch. She had to get her bag from the trunk, put on her snow boots, and deal with the situation the only way possible, she thought. She had to start walking.

Susannah tramped around the back of the car to get her snow boots from the trunk and stopped at the sight of it pressed in fat, crumpled pleats against the tree. She was plotting how to exact her revenge on both the man in the red parka and on Kenneth, for borrowing her cell phone, when she heard the muffled rumble of an engine through the snow-dense quiet. She spun toward the sound. Sure enough, after a moment she saw a yellow flash of lights against the trees, and two headlights appeared over the rise.

Stumbling through the drift toward the front of the car, she waved her arms and shouted.

"Hello! Stop! Over here!"

Stupid, she thought; he'd obviously see the Volvo's lights peering out of the trees, but the action warmed her up a bit. She struggled up onto the road and saw with amazement that it was actually a tow truck. She smiled, and the truck ground to a halt in front of her.

"Hello," she called again as the door swung open and a tall, shadowy figure stepped out. "Thank God you came by!"

The man didn't answer immediately, giving Susannah a moment's pause. Why should she automatically trust a tow-truck driver? After all, anyone could be a murderer if they wanted to be. In fact, a tow truck would be the perfect cover . . . he could say he'd found the body when he saw the car in the ditch . . . who would know? "Lose control?" the man asked as he neared. He was silhouetted in the truck's headlights, but she told herself his voice sounded normal enough.

She pushed her hands into her pockets. "No, actually I wanted the car there." A snippy, automatic reprimand to his obvious question that Kenneth would have pointed out was one of her most annoying traits.

The man laughed. "Nicely done. You picked a good spot."

"Thank you. But now I've changed my mind and I think I'd like to go on. Unfortunately my car has attached itself to that tree there." She stepped forward and to the side so that he had to turn to face her. The headlights illuminated one side of his face beneath the knit cap.

"Good thing I happened along, then," he said with a smile.

Good God, she thought, looking at his cheekbones and the way the lights shot right through his clear eyes. Not bad, for a murderer.

"I can't believe my luck," she said. "This only happened about five minutes ago. I had to brake and swerve to miss some guy who stepped out of the trees, and the next thing I knew . . ." She extended a gloved hand out, palm up, toward the Volvo.

"Five minutes?" The driver looked down the road. "I got a call about twenty-five minutes ago that someone up here needed a tow."

She paused. At most, ten minutes had elapsed. Had the man in the red parka called for help after all? Impossible, unless he had a cell phone. Which also seemed impossible. "Well, we probably shouldn't be surprised," she surmised. "This road hasn't been plowed at all. There's probably some other wreck down the road."

The man pushed his hands into his pockets and shook his head thoughtfully. "Yeah. But he said it was a Volvo." He glanced at her car. "A beige one."

Susannah felt a chill up her spine. For a second she watched the snow hit the beige hood of her car and melt into raindrops.

The man shrugged. "Well, maybe we got our times wrong. Anyway." He smiled again. "Why don't you wait in the truck, get warmed up, while I hook this thing up? Don't think we'll need the winch, since you're so close to the road."

She took a deep breath and dragged her eyes from the car. "Great," she said, not knowing or caring what a "winch" was. "I guess you can tow it to Reese's.''

They both started toward the truck, the man shaking his head with a sidelong glance. "Reese's went out of business about two years ago. Old man Reese moved to Florida."

"Really? Well, surely someone else took it over. I mean, the town can't be without a mechanic, can it? Gosh, how much would a tow to Camden be?"

He chuckled. "Don't worry. I work at a garage in town."

She sighed. "Great."

"Cameron's."

Susannah reached the passenger door and stopped. "Cameron's?"

He pulled open his door and slid inside. Susannah followed suit, relishing the way the hot, stuffy cab made her frozen cheeks tingle.

She looked hard at the side of his face without closing the door, which would shut off the light. Her brow wrinkled. "Youyou're not . . ." She leaned a little closer as he pulled the emergency brake off and the truck rocked forward.

"You want to shut the door?" His voice drifted off as he turned his face to her.

The both spoke at once.

"Joe?"

"Susannah?"

Susannah felt her stomach hit the soles of her feet. Joe Cameron, a tow-truck driver?

He laughed then, and she saw the dimple in his left cheek. The eyes that had looked clear in the glare of the headlights were now a jewellike blue.

"Susannah Murphy," he said and shook his head. He extended a gloved hand. "I might have known."

Joe Cameron, the boy who'd beat her out as class valedictorian by the skin of his teeth; the boy who'd edged her out of every academic competition since they were in the sixth grade; the boy who'd gotten into Harvard when she didn't; the boy who everyone knew would be the next town doctor and live in a mansion, just like his father; Joe Cameron was a tow-truck driver.

Her mind stumbled over the facts while she gaped at him. Automatically, she put her hand in his.

He shook it gently. "You okay?" He leaned forward to peer into her face.

She blinked and pulled herself up. "Yeah. Yes, I'm fine. I'm justsurprised, is all." She paused, drawing her brows together and staring at him again. "Is this your job?"

This time his laugh was cynical. "Part of it." He pulled his hand away from hers, put it on the steering wheel, and faced the windshield, easing the truck forward.

She had no idea what to say. What on earth could have happened to him? How had his fortunes fallen so drastically? He was the one person from Crossport she was sure would be a success. And, though she hated having to admit it, it had partially been the knowledge that he, Joe Cameron, was going to make it bigbigger than she wouldthat had propelled her out of Crossport to New York to seek her future.

He jabbed the truck into reverse and, twisting, laid his arm across the back of the bench seat. The truck rumbled, the tires grabbed at the snow, as it backed toward her car.

The strain of having to think of something appropriately consoling to say was relieved as he threw the truck into park and jumped out to hook up her car. Susannah took a deep breath. How humiliated he must feel, she thought. What on earth could she say to make him feel better? She was shocked, no doubt about it. But while it was something of a compliment that she'd thought him above this sort of work, she was pretty sure it wouldn't make him feel any better.

Maybe it was a temporary situation. Maybe he'd been laid off from somewhere, what with all the downsizing and reengineering going on in the corporate world. Maybe he just invested in the garage and was helping out for the holidays. It would be just like him not to elaborate, just to let her think he was nothing but a tow-truck driver. He was probably laughing to himself right now at the joke he was pulling, waiting to see her reaction.

Minutes passed. She listened to the rattle of chains and the whine of hydraulics, and watched snowflakes drift in front of the headlights.

When he climbed back into the cab she smiled at him. One side of his mouth curved upward in response as he slammed the door behind him.

"So, you decided to invest in a gas station?"

He concentrated on the road as he inched the truck forward. "Nope. No gas, just a garage." The motor growled, the sound lowering ominously as the weight of the Volvo registered. He checked out the rearview mirrors.

"Well, that's a good idea. Investing in a garage in a one-horse town like this. Probably not a lot of competition." She watched his face, trying unsuccessfully to read it. "Probably not a lot of holiday help, either, huh?"

The sound of crunching metal made her spin in the seat to look out the back window.

"It's just the tree letting go of your trunk," he said.

She shot him a skeptical look and turned back to watch the Volvo as it emerged from the ditch. Even if he had put up the money for the garage, how much experience could he have towing cars? Did insurance cover negligent tow-truck drivers?

"I have one other full-time employee," he said as the car reached the road. He shifted into second. "No holiday help needed."

Susannah relaxed back into the seat. They were moving forward now, her car rolling, relatively normally, behind them down the hill.

"But you don't work there yourself." She paused. "Right?" That same one-sided grin kicked up the corner of his mouth, and he turned a look on her that was somehow withering. "Of course I do. I own the place. I'm the head mechanic."

Chapter Two

Joe stole another glance at Susannah. She hadn't changed much, just polished herself up some. She'd always been pretty, but now she had the accomplished, unnatural look of a braided show horse.

Her coat matched her clothes, which matched her boots, which matched her bag, he noted. Her brown hair was shiny and appeared just-brushed; she wore lipstick despite the fact that she'd obviously driven from New York alone; and her fingernails showed color even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

She looked good, he supposed, if you liked that sort of look. But what disappointed him was that she obviously hadn't changed her attitude much since high school. She seemed pretentious and condescending, just like she'd always been. He'd seen the way she tried to hide her amazementand disgustwith his chosen profession. The shock and then the thinly veiled contempt. Though he'd schooled himself to ignore those slights from people who couldn't possibly understand, for some reason her reaction stung.

Her family had always been nice as could be, he thought. Her father was a roofer; her mother was always active in church activities. Her sister was friendly, tooeven back in high school when she'd been homecoming queen two years before Susannah graduated. She was now president of the Crossport Citizens' Civic Association.

But Susannah had always been prickly. And she'd always made Joe feel as if he'd done something terribly wrong to her, though they'd rarely even spoken to one another. They were just intimate acquaintances, the kind you get when you're the same age growing up in a small town.

Of course, they'd also been stiff academic competitors. Maybe that was what she had against him. But it wasn't their rivalry that had kept him from making any overtures of friendship all those years ago; it was her snootiness.

That, and the fact that he'd been a runt through high school without hope of a date, he thought with a wry, internal grimace.

Regardless, he hadn't liked her.

They pulled in front of the garage, and with a word about opening the bay door, he hopped out. The garage was what used to be the firehouse, before they'd built a fancy, modern one a mile out on Route 714. It had a tall brick facade topped by an iron cupola that at this time of year he festooned with Christmas lights and pine roping. Each of the three bay doors had an oversize wreath with a fat red bow.

No doubt it all looked very pathetic to Miss Big City Murphy, he thought uncharitably. Or Mrs. Whoever, he amended. After all, it had been ten years since high school. Most people were married by now. He got back into the truck and pulled it around to back the Volvo in.

"So, where's your husband? Surely you've snagged one by now," he said, too jovially.

Silence greeted the question, and when he got the Volvo straightened out he glanced over at her. She glared at him.

"No, I haven't snagged one, as you put it. And for your information it's because I haven't wanted to." Her voice held a cold note he remembered well. "Maybe you haven't heard here in Crossport, but these days there are a lot more things women can do than get married and raise babies."

"Fine," he said, holding up a hand in surrender and checking the rearview mirrors. "Just trying to be polite."

"That's one reason I got out of this dopey little town," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear, but mostly to herself, he believed.

"That's right, honey," he murmured, in an exaggerated country accent, "we married off all the ones stayed here. Got 'em all busy raisin' young'uns."

She raised a brow and looked down her nose at him. "I'll bet you do."

He laughed. The rivalry continued, he thought, though he guessed she'd won, technically. Everything about her spoke of success, while everything about him spoke of simplicity. "Come on, Susannah, truce. You don't have to have that chip on your shoulder with me."

"I don't have a chip"

"I've always known you were destined for greatness." He eased the truck to a halt, put it in park, and turned to face her. "Which apparently you've achieved."

After a second she laughed uncomfortably and looked down. "Yeah, right."

He considered her a moment. "It's true. I never met anyone as driven as you were in high school."

She looked up, an appealing smile in her gray eyesConfederate gray, he remembered calling them once, because her mother was southern. "Except you," she said.

The expression in her eyes was soft now, he noted. More vulnerable than he'd ever seen them. Maybe she was sad, he thought suddenly, then rejected the idea. He'd never been particularly insightful where women were concerned. And this woman had nothing to be sad about. Except maybe the current state of her car.

"No, I wasn't driven from inside like you were. I was pressured. There's a difference." He turned off the engine.

"Your parents?"

He laughed in an offhand way. "Everyone. The whole town thought I'd take over my father's practice someday."

"What happened?"

For a second he thought she sounded concerned. He shot her a glance, his lips curving wryly. "You can just wipe that pity off your face, Miss Murphy. What happened was I got what I wanted. I told them all off, dropped out of med school, and opened this garage."

"You mean you decided you wanted to be a mechanic?" Incredulous. Gray eyes large andno insight needed hereamazed. He shook his head and pushed open the cab door. "That's right. Pretty damn strange, huh?" He tried to be light, but the words sounded barbed even to his ears.

She scrambled out the other side of the truck and followed him toward the office. "Joe, listen, I'm sorry. That came out wrong. I mean, guysguys always love working on cars and stuff. There's nothing wrong with being a mechanic. You're probably great at it. It's just . . ."

He turned abruptly and she skidded to a halt in front of him. Her gray eyes, larger-looking with her snow-wet lashes, looked up at him intently, even apologetically.

"'It's just . . .'" he prompted.

She studied him a long moment and he had the sensation of being drawn closer to her, as if some force propelled them together, though of course neither of them moved. He wondered what she'd do if he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him. Then he wondered at even having the thought. He wasn't attracted to Susannah Murphyshe was, of all people, not his type. Besides, he had a date that weekend withdamnfor a second he lost her name. Laurie, he remembered, stopping himself in the nick of time from saying the name out loud.

"You could be so much more," Susannah said in a voice so quiet it stirred something deep in him, as if she'd said something intimate.

He took a long, deep breath. "And yet," he said slowly, "I've chosen to be happy. It's incredible how often that surprises people."

She bit the inside of her lipa gesture that looked suddenly familiar. He pictured her doing it during a test, twelfth grade, in Modern World History . . . then waiting her turn to give an oral report in Social Studies . . . and just before her speech as class president at graduation.

Then she smiled, her lips parting over pretty, pearly teeth. ''I can't say it really surprises me about you, Joe," she said, moving past him to the office door. She put her hand on the knob and turned, eyes laughing. "You always were the contrary sort."

To his amazement, he couldn't help but smile back at her. "My father told me the same thing once."

"Yeah? When?"

"Oh, a while ago. Probably after discussing my career move." He shook his head, keeping the smile in place, and glanced at the floor. In his mind's eye he saw the dimly lit study, smelled the humidor and the leather chairs, felt the churning apprehension at the sight of his father waiting for him. He looked up, shaking the memory off. "I remember I said something about wishing I was anyone's son but his, and slammed out of the house, furious."

"Nothing contrary about that." She arched an amused brow at him. "Was he terribly hurt?"

He looked at her. Maybe it was because of that moment he'd felt drawn to her. Or maybe it was because she looked so pretty, with her cheeks a cold pink and her hair damp from the snow. But he was tempted to tell her the whole story, about how his father's ongoing disappointment tormented him even now sometimes.

But even though he didn't detect any condescension in her eyesat the momenthe shrugged and leaned past her to open the door. "I don't know. Probably. But he got over it. We both did."

She moved into the office.

"If you want to wait in there, I'll just unhook the car and take a quick look."

"Should I call Ben?" she asked, referring to the town's one taxi driver. "Or has he gone out of business, too?"

"No, he's still around. But don't worry about it. I'll take you up to the house. Just let me see what we're dealing with here and I'll take you home. Feel free to use the phone, though, let your folks know you're on your way."

"Thanks," she said vaguely, and turned into the office.

Sure, Susannah thought, let them know she was on her way. Give them time to decide whether to argue with her first about the fact that she never called or visited, or the fact that she wasn't married yet, or that she wasn't president of the company by now. No thanks, she thought. She'd just show up when she showed up and make them guess for their nag time.

She sat down in the cracked vinyl desk chair and leaned back, nearly tipping over before the heavy spring underneath twanged and stopped her. She leaned forward, put her elbows on the desk, and looked at the doodles on the blotter. Phone numbers lined both sides of the calendar, names scrawled in handwriting that looked eerily familiar after all the years since high school.

She tried to remember Joe's face from ten, twelve years ago, but could not reconcile the boy of memory with the man who'd picked her up tonight. He was much taller and broader now. And who knew he had all that great bone structure in his face? The sky blue eyes were familiar, but never in high school had they made her feel so . . . seen. When he looked at her now those dark lashes made the icy irises look positively sultry. She felt as if he looked right through her. In a delicious sort of way.

She shook herself and straightened her head. This is Joe Cameron we're talking about here, she told herself, watching him through the office window. He'd pulled off his cap and his dark hair curled lazily to the nape of his neck. Her eyes descended to his butt, square and muscular in his blue jeans, the pants loose over strong legsjust the look she liked.

He squatted to remove a chain from under the front of the Volvo, and his jacket pulled across his shoulders. She looked at his shoes, mud-and salt-splattered hiking boots, chocolate leather. Obvious quality, obviously well used. He was like something forgotten pulled from the attic, something so sturdy and well made one wondered why it had ever been put away.

He stood with the grace of an athlete and sauntered around to the other side of the car. He had a confident, loose-limbed way of moving, she noted. Nice.

When he rose from the other side and caught her looking at him, he flashed a brief smile, his brows rising and falling once.

She felt herself blush and looked down at the blotter. She should be concentrating on her car, she thought. She should be agonizing about what this was going to cost her, how much her deductible was, and whether or not the thing would ever be the same again after hitting a tree. But all she could think about was the way Joe Cameron moved, and the way the light from the truck's headlights had short right through those transparent blue eyes.

The fact was, she told herself objectively, that Joe Cameron had grown up.

And he was a hunk.

She laughed out loud at the juvenile expression, then bit her lip to keep from giggling further. From the corner of her eye she saw him pull at the trunk of her car with a crowbar, obviously trying to pop it out far enough so he could open it.

Susannah sighed and put her head in her hands. She could just imagine going to her mother and confessing that she'd dumped Kenneth, the doctor, only to be attracted to Joe, the mechanic. Her mother'd have a fit. And she just wasn't up for one of her mother's fits right now. She was too tired. Too stressed from her job. Too confused about her love life. And too sick of thinking about it all. Besides, there was this whole wretched Christmas thing to deal with.

The office door opened and she jumped.

"Cheer up. It doesn't look too bad," Joe said, wiping his hands on a rag and leaning against the doorjamb. "You're in town through Christmas, I take it?"

"Yes." She straightened and pushed her hair behind her ears. "Till the twenty-seventh. Will I have to take it to a dealership, do you think?"

He frowned and shook his head. "I can take care of it. If you want, that is. My rates are reasonable and, like I said, it doesn't look too bad." She thought about that. Hiring Joe Cameron to work on her car was a little too close to the triumphs she used to imagine when he bested her scores on an exam. It would almost make her feel small to take advantage of his situation by hiring him to be her mechanic.

"Unless you don't trust me," he said.

She glanced up. "No, no" His eyes were laughing, she thought. "I was just wondering, you know, I was thinking, ah . . ."

He arched his brows expectantly.

"Oh, the hell with it," she said with a brief laugh. "If you want to do it. How long will it take to fix it?"

He shrugged. "Three, four days. I'll call you. Let you know."

She suppressed a ridiculous shiver of anticipation that spiraled up her spine at the words I'll call you.

"Sure, great."

"Did you call your folks?"

"No. They, ah, weren't expecting me at any particular time anyway." She rose, the motion punctuated by the pop of the spring under the desk chair. She glanced back at it and laughed. God, she was nervous. And he was going to be able to tell. Just because she'd been sitting here watching his butt in those jeans, she now had trouble looking him in the eye. Absurd. Laughable, really. It had just been too long since she'd felt any sort of physical attraction to someone. The fact that it was Joe Cameron in his new grown-up body was incidental.

"Let's go, then." He gestured with his head toward the truck and tossed the rag into a corner.

Susannah had a brief vision of her mother seeing her drive up in a tow truck. She should ask Joe to come with her to the door and introduce him as her fiancé. That way maybe the relief her mother felt when it wasn't true would carry her through the next two weeks.

But aside from being silly, it was unrealistic. This was a tiny, tiny town. Her mother would probably recognize the truck immediately. And she'd know, like no one else ever could, how far Susannah Murphy was from ever marrying Joe Cameron. Her mother had fed their rivalry even more than Joe had, always pushing her to prove herself, to show "those Camerons" that she didn't need money to be smart. When Joe'd been named class valedictorian her mother had been even more devastated than she herself had been.

"You remember where I live?" she asked, inanely. He had to pass her parents' house every time he went to Camden, the next-closest, and larger, town.

"Oh, I think I can find it," he said with a relaxed grin.

She glanced at the side of his face, half wishing those sky blue eyes would turn and shoot through her again, clear and brilliant as the headlights had been shooting through them.

"Mother, I'm fine. I brought all clean clothes. I don't need any laundry done yet," Susannah said after being asked for the second time.

"All right, then. Your father wanted me to double check, that's all." Her mother pushed a lock of graying brown hair from her forehead, then moved her hand to push up the short curls in back.

"I'm fine." "Good. You just get settled then; I'll get dinner ready. What would you like?"

"Anything, I don't care."

"I've got a chicken in the oven, but I can broil some steaks if you'd rather."

"Chicken is fine, Mother. If it's already cooking, let's eat that."

"All right, then." But she continued standing in the doorway.

Susannah tried to ignore her, folding her clothes and putting them in the same dresser she'd used since childhood.

"That was nice of the Cameron boy to bring you home."

Susannah took a deep breath. "Yes, it was."

"I hope you paid him for it. We don't need to be taking any favors, you know. I hope you gave him a few dollars for his trouble."

"He's going to do the work on my car, Mom. I'll pay him then."

"Oh, is he?" Her voice was all delight. "All right, then, but don't you forget. I don't like people talking like we've got to take favors from anyone. And they will talk, you know."

Susannah sighed, exasperated. "I'm not going to forget to pay him. Jeez, it's major body work. And if all people have to talk about is whether or not I paid Joe Cameron for a ride home, then they're going to say what they want no matter what I do."

"All the more reason." She was silent a moment as Susannah continued unpacking. "You know he dropped out of medical school a few years back, Joe Cameron did."

"I know. He told me." Her mother shook her head. "His poor father was livid. Frances said he never got over the shame of it, and who can blame him? Imagine, watching your son be so bright and full of promise all through school, only to have him throw it away to work on cars. Least he could've done was go somewhere else to do it, rather than humiliate his family every day this way." She made a clicking sound with her tongue and Susannah glanced up.

"He said he's happy with what he's doing," she said, resenting the fact that she'd had the very same thought. She pulled out a dresser drawer and raw wood screeched against raw wood. "I guess it's not up to you or me to decide what's best for him to do."

Her mother laughed. "Of course not. Who are we to say he'd be happier being a rich doctor than a struggling mechanic? But I'll tell you this: he'd have found himself a wife by now if he'd finished out that medical school."

Susannah practically threw her socks into the drawer. "I'm sure that's just what he wants, Mom. A wife who'd only have him if he were a doctor."

Her mother shrugged. "She'd be a wife with sense." She smiled. "Like you. You always were the smarter one; everyone knows that now. How is Kenneth?"

Susannah's stomach clenched as she turned on her mother with a pile of clean underwear clutched to her chest. "Kenneth?"

"Yes. Why didn't you bring him with you? He sounds so nice over the phone. And maybe he could've talked to your father."

Susannah dropped the underwear into the drawer and forced it shut over the shriek of wood. "How is Pop? Is he doing any better? Where is Pop?"

To Susannah's relief, her mother took the distraction. "He's working late. Got some leak up there at the Spotswood, and them nearly full for the holiday. He'll be home for supper. But I'll tell you, Sue, I think he might be going 'round the bend this time. I just hope to God nobody else notices. It'd be just like him to go telling people about that man he talks to. I don't need another reason for folks to be looking down at me."

"What do you mean, another reason?"

"Oh, you know. People like those Camerons are always thinking they're better than us. Guess they can't say so now, though, what with young Joe working on your fancy new car." She cackled with such smug satisfaction that Susannah felt her cheeks flame with shame.

"That's mean, Mother."

Her mother drew up an edge of her apron to dab at the corner of one eye. "Oh, I know, I know. But it's just like I always said: you don't need money to be smart. I guess you're showing them, aren't you, sweetie?"

Susannah shook her head, feeling slightly sick at her mother's words. Her mother's point of view was so antiquated, and so clichéd. Had she really grown up believing this? Believing that the world spent so much time considering her circumstances? It seemed so silly now.

"Mom, I doubt the Camerons ever even noticed us, aside from having to call Pop every once in a while for a roof repair. They didn't care half so much as you always did that we were poor."

"We weren't poor. We just didn't have money to go flaunting ourselves the way they always did."

Susannah laughed. "But if we'd had the money, we would've been flaunting ourselves just like they did? Is that what you're saying?"

Her mother straightened. "Of course not. You're deliberately misunderstanding me, Susannah. We may have had to watch our pennies here and there, but we've always paid our bills. And we sent you to college, didn't we?"

"I know, I know." Susannah sighed and held up her hands. "I don't want to argue with you, Mom. I'm just tired of hearing about the Camerons and the Joyces and the Phillipses and money every time I come home."

Her mother harrumphed indelicately. "You can't be too tired of it, then, since you never come home."

"Well, maybe that's why," Susannah said, releasing some of the exasperation that was making her stomach burn. "Maybe I'm just sick to death of coming here and having to think about keeping up with the Joneses."

"That's a fine way to talk, Susannah. After we scrimped and saved to send you to college so you could keep up with the Joneses. I didn't notice you complaining any when you moved to New York, or when you bought that car. Or those silk panties," she said, indicating the drawer into which Susannah had dropped her underwear.

"That's not why I went to college, Mom. I didn't go so that I could buy things. I went toto" She swallowed, scanning her mind for the right words, sure the reason was there in her head, but she was too upset to find it. ''To learn," she finished lamely.

Her mother's brows descended. "I don't notice you turning away any opportunities to buy things along the way."

Susannah felt inexplicable tears of frustration well up in her eyes and drop over her bottom lashes onto her cheeks. She turned abruptly and dashed them away. "Of course not. Of course I like having nice things. I just meant. . . ." She tried to sniff without making her emotion obvious. "It shouldn't be a full-time job, comparing what you've got with what everyone else has."

"I don't do that"

"I know."

"They do. They're the ones who look down on us"

"I know."

"There's nothing wrong with living frugally."

"Mother. I know."

She wanted to apologize, to take it all back, but she couldn't. She couldn't simply back down and accept her mother's version of things because she'd worked too long and too hard to get away from it. But all the arguing in the world wouldn't change her mother any; it would only hurt her more.

The worst part was, Susannah feared that despite her efforts she was turning out just like her.

She flipped her empty suitcase shut and snatched up her purse from the chair. "I'm going for a walk."

"A walk!"

"Yes. I'll be back later." Holding her emotions in check, Susannah sidled past where her mother stood in the doorway, unable to look at the brittle pride on her mother's face. "Tell Pop when he gets home I'll see him at dinner."

"But dinner's in only an hour. Caroline's coming, with the boys."

"I'll be back." Susannah raced down the stairs, grabbed her coat from the bottom of the railing, and slammed out the door.

The cold braced her momentarily, then drove home with hard air and frigid temperatures how impulsive she'd been. It was still snowing, and the Armani boots she wore were still wet from her earlier foray into the snow. She could walk into townit wasn't that farbut she'd be soaked by the time she got there.

Turning, she looked back at the house. Pushing away tears that tightened and stung on her freezing cheeks, she balked at the idea of going back inside. How was she ever going to make it through Christmas?

She glanced down the road toward town. Despite the cold, the darkness of the road loomed peaceful and inviting. She felt as if it pulled at her, as if the snow and enveloping silence offered healing.

She shrugged into her coat and started off down the road.

Chapter Three

She made it to the gazebo in the center of the square with just enough feeling left in her feet to tell her she'd be a fool to walk back. She rubbed her gloved hands over the toes of her boots and looked out over the deserted ice rink. It wasn't very late, she thought; why weren't there any skaters? She leaned forward to see over the gazebo's railing.

"They just set it up yesterday," a grizzled voice, startlingly close, said.

Susannah jumped, gasped, and dropped her foot to the planked floor with a loud bang. Her frozen toes stung with the impact.

Two benches over in the dark, octagonal gazebo sat a man in a red, fur-trimmed parka.

"You!" she cried. Any thought she might have had about his sudden appearance was vanquished by the shock of who he was. "You're the one who made me wreck my car!" She stood up, feet protesting soundlessly inside her boots.

The Christmas lights along the railing were pretty pinpoints of colored light, but they did little to illuminate anything or anyone. Susannah thought she saw him smile, but could not be sure. The only thing obvious about the man was the red of his coat and the spiky fur trim around the hood, now bunched closely around his face.

He gazed out over the skating rink and said, "Just waiting for it to set, I imagine."

Susannah glared at him, adrenaline warming her like a bonfire. What in God's name was he talking about? Was he senile? He couldn't possibly claim he was not the man she'd almost hit. How many fire-engine red parkas could there be? Not to mention people with taste poor enough to wear one.

Slowly, he turned his head toward her. "The ice," he said, with a nod in that direction. "It hasn't set yet. That's why there aren't any skaters."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why didn't you at least stop? You must have seen me. I almost hit you! And I could have used some help, you know. I had to get a tow truck to pull me out." The man sat nodding as if she recited a well-known verse. "And you . . . you should be more careful. You could have gotten yourself killed," she added, thinking maybe an appeal to his own sense of well-being might involve him in the subject at hand.

He continued to nod, and she thought he might still be thinking about the ice, when he said, "Joe was coming."

Joe was coming? A chill prickled across her skin. Was he the one who'd called the tow truck twenty minutes before the accident? Had he planned it?

She remembered Joe's words, about the call he'd gotten. He said it was a Volvo. A beige one.

How could this man have known that she, in a beige Volvo, would be coming down that road at that exact moment? Even her parents, who'd known she was to arrive that night, hadn't known when, or that she'd impulsively stopped at her favorite pottery shop in Portsmouth that afternoon, delaying her a good hour.

"Joe who?" she asked warily.

The old man turned to her, eyes clear in his tranquil face. "Joe Cameron. He got you out, didn't he? He's a good boy, that Joe."

Susannah studied the face amid the fur and determined that he was not someone she'd known growing up, so he could not be from Crossport. Maybe he was someone's grandfather. Maybe he was Joe's grandfather. Drumming up a little business for him, the evil part of her mind contributed.

"How well do you know Joe?" She sat gingerly back down on her bench and watched the man as if he might spring up out of the seat at any moment and do something bizarre.

He turned in his seat to face her. "All his life."

Aha! Susannah thought.

"Just like I've known you," he continued pleasantly.

Susannah straightened, suspicion overtaking her again. Sure, she may have forgotten one or two people in this tiny town, but someone she'd known her entire life? Someone this odd?

"I'm sorry," she said warily, "maybe you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm"

"Susannah Murphy."

They said her name simultaneously.

Susannah leaned toward him, squinting into the dark. "And you are . . .?"

"Oh, you wouldn't remember me. You've not seen me since you were a child, and a young one at that. My name's Phineas Quinn. Or Quinn Phineas, whichever you prefer. But that sounds a bit facetious, don't you think?"

Definitely senile, Susannah thought, leaning back and deciding it was pointless to try to set him straight about wandering heedlessly on snowy roads.

"Yes, it does," she said.

"So just make it Phineas. Or Quinn. Which do you prefer?" His white brows beetled as he inquired of her.

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

She should probably go, she thought. He'd be asking for money soon. Aside from the fact that she didn't have any change left in her purse, she hated the quandary that homeless people always produced in her. If you gave them money they more than likely squandered it on liquor or cigarettes or something equally unable to improve their lot. But if you didn't, you could be depriving them of a meal, or a chance to sleep in a warm place.

People with that kind of sense didn't become homeless, Kenneth had always pointed out, ignoring the less-fortunates on the streets of New York with a lack of conscience Susannah envied. No, the only way to help those people was to let them hit rock bottom. Then maybe they'd help themselves, he contended.

"Of course it matters," the old man said from inside his fur.

For a second Susannah didn't know what he was talking about. His name, she remembered. "Well, naturally. Of course your name matters. I only meant"

"It matters because between humans a name is a connection. The first real connection. With animals it's smell."

"I would have thought," Susannah said, still feeling contentious, "that with humans it would be sight. I could know someone on sight long before I'd know their name." Like I know you're the one who caused me to wreck, she thought, wondering if she should say it aloud.

"But you see, there is no connection. It's the name that connects you. You have to exchange information to get a name."

"I could get it from someone else," Susannah countered.

The man smiled and raised a finger. "So you would know who the person was, right?"

She shrugged. "Of course."

"Connection." He grinned and chuckled a white cloud into the cold air. "If you notice, you won't truly feel you know who someone is until you get their name. And you might meet up with someone whose appearance has changed, but when they tell you their name . . . aha! You will instantly recall them. And most likely a myriad of other details about them as well."

Susannah pursed her lips. "Okay. I see your point." With reservations, she thought. Then, with a sigh and a self-conscious laugh at herself for going along with him, she said, "I'll call you Quinn, all right?"

The man beamed. "Of course you will. You always did."

She frowned in the dark, but decided to ignore the remark. The conversation had been interesting, but it was cold and she really didn't have time to indulge in meaningless discussions with strangers when it was ten degrees out. She had to go home and have meaningless discussions with her parents.

She shivered and rose to leave.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Quinn." She nodded at him.

He looked up at her, his face oddly serene, a small smile on his lips. "Nice seeing you again, Susannah."

She paused. "Did you say you were related to Joe Cameron?"

He chuckled again, and she thought it sounded like a very Santa Claus-y laugh. Warm and companionable. "Oh, no. Not the way you're thinking. We're just old friends. Like you and I are."

"Ah." She smiled and nodded. No doubt Joe didn't know who he was either. "Well, good to see you again, too. I have to go home now." She turned to descend the gazebo's steps.

"Yes, I'm afraid your mother's worried the chicken will be cold. She does so want things to be perfect for you."

Susannah turned back to him, her eyes finding his face in the darkness, looking for something sinister. How had he known about the chicken? Another weird chill skittered along her nerves. But his eyes looked only kind under the white eyebrows, the soft, wrinkled skin pulling them into a kind of perpetual laughter.

"Yes, well . . ." she murmured, taking the first step away from him while keeping her eyes on his face. "We all would like things to be perfect, wouldn't we?"

He took his hands from his pockets and clasped them loosely in front of him. "No," he said with an easygoing frown and a short shake of his head, "not all of us."

Susannah was halfway across the square when she saw one of the huge doors at the old firehouse grind upward. A growing alley of light spilled onto the snow of the driveway as the door opened and Joe's tow truck eased forward into it.

It was a nice truck, she noted. New and well equipped. Shiny. Had to be family money that paid for that, she thought. So much for making it as a mechanic. So much easier when one's father is a doctor, she decided uncharitably, then chided herself for sounding too much like her mother. Again.

Susannah slowed. Could she ask him for a ride again? How many favors could he do her in one night? And would this make for an uncomfortable beholdenness to him, counteracting the fragile hold she had on self-confidence by having him work on her car?

She stubbed her booted toe on the edge of the curb and stepped heavily into the street, her frozen toes nearly crying out with the impact. Headlights scanned her as the truck turned out of the driveway and the hulking machine throbbed to a stop in front of her.

The body insideJoe's lithe, angular shouldersleaned across the bench seat to roll down the window.

"Didn't I just put you up on top of that hill right there?" he asked with a grin through the opening. Susannah could feel the warmth emanating from the cab. "And I just rolled right back down like a bad penny," she said, thinking, Joe Cameron. Connection.

"Where are you rolling to now, Penny?"

She could see the black of his lashes and the blue of his eyes in the light of the dash as he leaned toward her.

"Home," she said. "My mother's chicken is getting cold."

"Got it with you, have you?"

She laughed. How silly she was to think Joe Cameron would keep score of the favors he'd done for her. Looking into his easy, laughing face she realized that, no, she was apparently the only one small enough to do that.

"Hop in," he said, releasing the latch and pushing the heavy door out toward her. "I'll take you up again."

She glanced back at the gazebo, thinking she'd ask Joe if he knew the man in the parka, but he was already gone, swallowed up by the darkness beyond the lighted square. He moved fast for an old man, she thought. Must be all that hiking through snowy woods.

This time her mother invited Joe to stay for supper, and Susannah could tell by the look on her face that she was shocked when he said yes. She herself was surprised he wanted to stay, especially after she'd insulted him about his job, but she found herself looking forward to the meal she'd previously dreaded.

"Where's Pop?" she asked, peeling herself out of her scarf, gloves, and coat. ''He's in the TV room with the boys," her mother answered as the three of them traipsed into the kitchen. "Caroline's upstairs on the phone. Seems Randy might have to go to Portland on business for a few days."

Joe's boots sounded large and hard on the kitchen linoleum as they entered, and his presence in the room seemed to dwarf it. Suddenly she saw the tiny, familiar kitchen through his eyes and cringed at the sight of it. The scarred Formica table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the chrome-and-vinyl chairs she'd sat in every morning before school while growing up. The appliances, though clean, looked dingy and off-white, their rounded corners and noisy motors attesting to their age. Even her mother, Susannah thought, looked like something out of the fifties, with her permed hair and flower-print dress. She imagined Joe thinking he'd stepped back in time. He must wonder what in the world he was thinking, agreeing to dinner, she thought with sudden humiliation.

She turned after pulling off her coat and saw her mother taking Joe's with a solemn dignity, as if they were standing in a marble foyer instead of on the worn linoleum of the now slush-strewn kitchen.

"Something sure smells good," Joe said, smiling over her mother's head at Susannah. "Chicken?"

Susannah's cheeks burned with her own thoughts, but she smiled back. Did she, too, look like she belonged here? Did Joe look at her and think, "Ah, yes, this is the Susannah Murphy I remember"? She thought of her Volvo in his shop, and glanced down at her drenched Armani boots. What tiny Band-Aids these were to her upbringing. She'd heard once that the Camerons had a butler. A butler, for pity's sake! If she were at his house they probably would be in a marble foyer, and instead of Mrs. Cameron shuffling off with her coat and a sour look, a man in a black suit would bow and float off to some cavernous closet the size of the entire Murphy house.

Joe watched the smile disappear from Susannah's face and saw it replaced by that closed, stubborn expression he remembered from high school. He knew why he'd accepted Mrs. Murphy's invitation: because he'd been fairly certain Susannah did not want him there. It wasn't that he wanted to annoy her, particularly. He just felt a curiosity about her he couldn't put to rest. All evening, after he'd dropped her off the first time, he'd thought about how she'd looked, and about that compulsion he'd had to reach out and touch her. It wasn't because she was prettyshe'd always been pretty. It was because there was a vulnerability about her now that made him think he could reach something inside her.

Which was stupid, he told himself, looking around the homey kitchen, considering she was the town's success story and he was its most notorious failure. A willful failure, his father had called him. Making him sound like not just a loser but a quitter to boot.

No, there was nothing he could do for Susannah Murphynothing she wanted him to do and certainly nothing he felt capable of doing. Just as there was nothing she could do for him. He had long ago eschewed the life she was livingno, reveling innow. In fact, living in New York City and buying a Volvo and joining the rat race was his own personal version of Hell.

So why was he here? Why was he making nice with her motherwho could never stand him, he knew welland teasing Susannah about the chicken despite the wall she kept firmly up in front of him?

Contrary, he thought. It was because he was contrary, as she'd said. The fact that she would never understand why he'd done what he'd done with his life made him want to convey it to her somehow. And the more impossible it seemed, the more he wanted it.

They stood here in this companionable kitchen, with their pasts stretching out behind them in two long, adjacent lines, and their futures stretching out before them with a gulf as wide as infinity between them. Like two stars that had collided and ricocheted off in opposite directions.

Only they'd never actually collided, he thought. And maybe that was why he was here.

"Come on in," Susannah was saying from the living room doorway. "I haven't seen my father yet, so why don't you have a seat and I'll be right back. Would you like something to drink?" Her brow furrowed. "We probably only have beer."

"A beer would be great," he said. "Just what I like after a hard day at the office."

She smiled vaguely and went back into the kitchen. He heard the clank of condiments in the refrigerator door as it opened, then the sharp hiss and pop of the can being opened. She brought the beer to him in a glass, the can in her other hand, and set them each on a coaster on the coffee table in front of him. Then she went into another room, where he heard voices and the background babble and canned laughter of a television program.

"How are your parents, Joe?" Mrs. Murphy came down the stairs to his right wearing a different dress, a dark green affair with gold buttons down the front. She had on stumpy black heels, and her face looked more made up than it had before.

Joe stood automatically. "They're just fine, Mrs. Murphy. Mother's all wrapped up in the Christmas bazaar, you know, and Dad stays late at the office so he doesn't have to help her out." He laughed to show her it was a joke.

Mrs. Murphy didn't smile. "Your father works so hard. He must be busy. Everybody gets sick around Christmas. I bet he wishes he had some help down there." She gave him a parental look and he knew exactly what she meant.

He grinned into her disapproval. "As it happens, he does have help. You may not have known this, Mrs. Murphy, but he's semiretired now and has had Dr. Williams down there helping since last August. In fact, I heard she might take over the whole thing this spring. Have you met Dr. Williams?"

Mrs. Murphy nodded. "Oh, yes, Dr. Williams. I've met her. And I'm sure she's very good and all, even if she is too young yet to really know what she's doing. I just can't help thinking it's a shame your father couldn't have handed over the burden to you when it got too much for him. That's the way it used to be, you know. From fathers to sons, and so on."

Joe shook his head in self-deprecation. "He's much better off without me there. And Jenny Williams is older than I am, Mrs. Murphy, though I'm sure she'd be glad to know it's not obvious to everyone. She's got a lot of experience, and if you talk to her it's obvious she loves what she does."

Mrs. Murphy sat down. Joe followed suit.

"But Joe," she insisted, her face earnest and concerned, "I can't help thinking what a comfort you'd have been to your father. He must have wanted to pass the practice on to you." He last words rose as if she were asking a question.

"For a time, I think," Joe said equably. "But he's more than happy with Dr. Williams now. And he gets his car worked on for free. So he's got the best of both worlds."

To his surprise, Mrs. Murphy laughed just as Susannah entered the room with her father.

Susannah shot her mother a suspicious look, then passed it to Joe. "You remember Joe, don't you, Pop?" she asked, turning to the gray-haired, barrel-chested man behind her.

"Of course, of course," Mr. Murphy boomed, striding across the room and taking Joe's hand as he rose. "Just talked to him last week about a blown radiator hose."

"That clamp work for you, sir?" Joe asked. Mr. Murphy's presence defused the tension in the room like a cool blast of air in a sauna. Even Susannah seemed more relaxed once her father started talking.

"Just the thing," he said. Then, turning and seeing his wife, he added with a comical look, "Criminy,' Stelle, you didn't tell me we had to dress for dinner, and me without my tuxedo."

Joe glanced at Susannah, who viewed her mother through astonished eyes in a scarlet face. Mrs. Murphy rose to her feet. "Well, Susannah looked so nice, and since we had a guest I thought I'd put something nice on, too. You know it wouldn't do you any harm to get out of those dungarees once in a while."

"Oh, Mother," Susannah muttered, looking miserable. She looked down at her own attire and Joe followed her gaze as it marched across her outfit. From her salt-encrusted and snow-wet boots to her damp leggings to the oversize sweater, she clearly did not consider herself to be looking nice, Joe concluded.

"Maybe I'll go change, too," her father offered.

Susannah looked about to protest when three young boys burst from the TV room and Susannah's sister, Caroline Crawford, descended the stairs.

"Too late now!" Mr. Murphy laughed.

Mrs. Murphy turned to her other daughter. "Look who's here, Caroline."

And Susannah, Joe noted, let herself fade into the background of Caroline's pleased greetings and her nephews' rambunctious excitement.

"I'll walk you to the door," Susannah said to Joe as Caroline and her mother cleared the coffee cups from the table.

Dinner had gone much better than she'd expected, with Joe fitting in more easily than she herself did. It made sense, she thought. After all, with all their differences, her family saw more of Joe than they did of her. And besides, he'd obviously been making an effort to fit in, though God knew why. Every time someone sopped up gravy with their bread, or reached across their neighbor to grab the salt, or poured more water without offering it around, Susannah cringed with embarrassment. No doubt Joe had grown up with nannies slapping his hand for using the wrong fork. She didn't care how much grease he might have under his fingernails now; he was still a Cameron and always would be. He was used to better. That he could be sitting at her family's table and seeing right through the veneer of accomplishment she'd polished so assiduously since leaving made her practically squirm with discomfort.

But it wasn't just his judgment she worried about. It was the fact that seeing it all through his eyes made her question which was the real her. The unsophisticated girl who'd fit in at this table? Or the uncomfortable woman who dreaded coming here?

"I'm sorry about this evening," she said as they reached the front door. She pulled his coat from the hall closet and handed it to him, both of them bending to pick up the scarf that fell out of the sleeve where her mother had pushed it.

"What do you mean?" he asked, clearly surprised. As they rose each of them held one end of the scarf. "Dinner was great."

Susannah dropped her end. "I mean my mother. I heard a little of what she said to you earlier. About your father, and the practice. I hope that doesn't make you feel bad."

His sheer blue eyes turned to her with an open, unswerving expression that made her feel silly for saying anything. Of course, she thought stupidly, why should he feel bad about her mother's opinion?

She flushed. "I mean"

"I've heard worse than that, Susannah," he said, and in his face she saw nothing but calm. "Most of it from my own parents."

"Well, it's their business more than it is my mother's."

"It's nobody's business," he said in a quiet, steady voice.

"Of course not," she amended quickly, wondering if her face could get any hotter.

"Unless I let it be."

She glanced up at him, at the thoughtful perusal in his eyes as he looked at her. "That's . . . so easy to say," she started. It was just like him to think you could just disregard what people thought. That it was easy or even right to just do whatever you wanted. "But it's difficult to discount the opinions of others, don't you think?"

He bent his head sideways, a kind of shrug to acknowledge a questionable point. "At first."

"You have to be pretty confident, some might even say cocky, in your own assessment of things. It's that kind of egotism that gets people in trouble."

"Does it? I always thought it was that kind of confidence"he grinned"or egotism, as you put it, that made people great."

She laughed, more sure of herself now. "So you think pitching medical school to become a mechanic will make you great?"

He looked at her with amused eyes. "Might make me a great mechanic."

She sobered. "I'm serious, Joe. You can't just discount what everyone else thinks, especially if everyone else thinks the same thing, simply because it's not what you want to think. Have you ever considered that if everyone thinks a certain way it's for a good reason? That maybe there's a collective knowledge higher than the individual's?"

Susannah was congratulating herself on the clarity of this postulation when Joe said simply, "No."

"No?" she repeated.

"No."

She scoffed, stung. "Well, there's that cockiness I was talking about."

"Susannah," he said patiently, setting her teeth on edge. "When people stop striving to be who they really are, everyone loses."

Who they really are, Susannah thought. That was it, exactly. She had no idea who she really was, and coming back here only made her more confused.

She turned and opened the door. Outside the snow fell steadily, their earlier footprints shadowed valleys in the smooth white expanse of the yard. Joe's truck was covered, and for the first time she noticed the wreath with the red bow attached to the grille.

Christmas, she thought with a start. She'd forgotten. It was only two weeks away.

She turned back to Joe with a polite smile. "It's obvious we're never going to agree. We never did." She held out her hand. "But it's been good to see you again. Thanks for"she laughed lightly and glanced out the door"all the rides this evening."

He smiled and shrugged. "No problem. I'll let you know about your car."

He closed his fingers over hers and she had a sudden desire to clasp his hand in both of hers and hold it to her heart. Connection, she thought. But it had nothing to do with his name.

She shook his hand and let go quickly. "Thanks. So, ah, good to see you. Like I said."

"You too." He stood, nodding, watching her. Then, as smoothly as if he did it every day, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.

The moment was tiny, the kiss brief, but it rocked her with its unexpectedness. Warm lips, a swift impression of soap and beard stubble, the smell of clean hair and his leather coat.

She stepped quickly back to clear the way for his exit. "Thanks again." She found herself looking at the floor.

He stepped toward the door. "No, Susannah, thank you. I really enjoyed myself."

She glanced up at him, suspicious. "Good."

"Now I owe you a good time."

He smiled with the words, but she was not sure if he was making a joke about the evening that she should get. Maybe he meant he owed her for subjecting him to her family. Maybe he was being sarcastic. Maybe he was acknowledging that neither one of them had really had a good time; how could they have?

He was out the door and halfway to his car before she thought, maybe he meant it.

Chapter Four

''What's going on with you, Pop?" Susannah asked, joining her father in the TV room. He sat in his favorite brown armchair, the one with the stuffing showing through identical threadbare spots on either arm.

"Oh, not too much." He hit the mute button on the remote and stretched, turning a smile on her. "What about you? You're looking terrific, sweetie. Just as pretty as ever."

She smiled, ashamed of the pride she felt at the compliment. She'd spent years trying to prove looks didn't matter as much as brains, and with one sentence her father turned her back into the girl in the pinafore who beamed from a picture on the mantel.

"Thanks. But I meant what's going on with you and Mom? She called me a couple weeks ago all upset because she said you were talking to some imaginary person." She sat on the hassock in front of him and rested one ankle on the opposite knee to wrestle off her boot.

He sighed. "Oh, that."

She laughed. "Yes, that. I knew she had to be making a mountain out of a molehill, but what in the world made her say something like that, of all things?"

Her father's fingers played with the stuffing that popped out of one of the arms, his eyes focused on the task.

Uneasiness gathered in Susannah's chest. "Well, it's not true, is it?"

He shook his head, still studying the arm of the chair. "It's not so bad as all that. He's harmless."

"What do you mean? Who is?"

"This man I talk to. He's just . . . we just talk about the old days, you know. About the dairy . . . did you know, he remembers my father." He glanced up at her then, cautiously pleased. "He remembers all the way back to when my father had his milk run . . . and that old Ford he used to drive with the chrome running boards and the open cab. He" He started to laugh, the tickled, throaty chuckle that always made Susannah smile along with him. ''He even remembers the way it used to sputter up hills and then backfire loud as a double-barreled shotgun once it got to the top. More'n once Minnie Stewart came charging out of her house at the top of Trussler Street to see who'd been shot."

She watched him. "He remembers all that? Who is he? Someone from town?"

"That's the strange thing. I don't remember him from back then. Or from town. But he sure does remember me and my family. Asks about you, too, sweetie."

Susannah smiled, relief coursing through her. "So he's real, then."

"Sure, he's real," her father said with a smile. But he didn't meet her eyes. "Then why does Mom think he's not real?"

Her father leaned forward and took her hand in his, pursing his lips contemplatively. "Oh, I suppose because she's never seen him. He tends to . . . well, he disappears when she comes in. It's the darnedest thing." He laughed and his face turned a slow, deep red.

"Pop," she said, her stomach registering dread, "you know that sounds crazy, right?"

He looked toward the window where the fat, colorful Christmas lights could be seen around the railing of the front porch. Susannah followed his gaze, remembering the hot, electrical smell of them. How many Christmases had she watched her father lay the lights out in long strands on the family room floor in order to untangle their cords and find the burned-out bulbs?

"I can't explain it, honey," he said finally. "But I . . ." His fingers clenched her hand in light, convulsive grips and he cleared his throat. ''I just like talking to him. It doesn't seem bad, and it's not a harmful thing to do, do you think?"

Susannah frowned and looked down. Would it be dangerous to let something like this go by without checking it out? Of course it would. Whether it seemed harmless or not, he was suddenly talking to someone, seeing someone who wasn't there; it was definitely not healthy. He should see a doctor.

"Oh, I know it sounds crazy," he continued at her silence. "I even worried about it myself, in the beginning. But he's such a charming fellow. . . ." He drifted off, staring at their hands, his gnarled and split from working in the cold, hers pale and soft.

"Pop" she began. "Hell, I don't know how he comes and goes so quickly, but it doesn't seem to matter much. All we do is talk." He glanced over at her. "Now don't look so worried," he chided, patting her hand. ''It's really nothing to worry about, I'm sure."

She looked up at him, at his kind and, yes, lucid eyes.

"He's not telling you to blow up government buildings or worship the devil or anything like that, is he?" she asked with a dry smile.

Her father's big, familiar laugh burst out of him. "Criminy, hon," he said, "Quinn's not like that. Mostly we talk about the old days. Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, the Duke. Ellington, that is."

"Quinn?" Susannah repeated, surprise seeming to halt the blood in her veins. "That's his name? Quinn?"

"That's what he calls himself. He's a little colorful, quite a character, you know, but wise, I think, in his way."

A second after the initial shock, her heart surged with renewed relief. "But Quinn's not imaginary!" she exclaimed. "I've seen him myself, Pop."

Her father's eyes narrowed doubtfully. "You've seen him?"

"Yes, I've talked to him! He has a habit of disappearing quickly, true. But he's certainly not a figment of your imagination." She laughed out of sheer thankfulness. Her father wasn't getting senile; he didn't have Alzheimer's, for pity's sake. Her mother had, once again, overreacted. Thank God.

Her father still looked puzzled. "Where have you seen him?"

"Actually, it's been a couple of times now. In fact, he's the reason I wrecked my car. He stepped out in front of me." She shook her head, irritated again, though not as much as before. Her father's concerned look made her add, "But I'm sure it was just a mistake. He wasn't paying attention, I guess. I even saw him in the park tonight and talked to him about it a little bit."

Her father began to look relieved, too. His thumb lightly stroked the back of her hand.

"He wears a red parka, right?" she asked. "Can't miss him?"

"Well, now, I've never seen him in a parka. Mostly he wears dungarees, with suspenders. I think he had on a red flannel shirt, though, last time. But I don't much notice."

"Anyway," Susannah continued, "he's real. He's not imaginary and you're no crazier than I am."

Susannah awoke the next morning to the smell of bacon and coffee. She jerked upright, searched for the clock on the bedstand, looked frantically around the unfamiliar room, then leaned slowly back on the pillows.

She was at homein Crossport. She didn't need to jump up, get showered, find a pair of stockings with no holes, heels that hit a different set of blisters than the ones the day before, and a dress that looked professional and was comfortable enough to wear for fifteen hours. And, best of all, she didn't need to run the seven blocks to the subway to make it to work on time. There was no breakfast meeting, she wasn't late, and the report was finished.

Every day for the last four months, including weekends, she'd followed this routine. At night she'd arrive with just enough energy to throw mayonnaise at the tuna fish in a bowl, eat it standing up in the kitchen with her feet massaging the aches out of each other as she shifted her weight, and then go to bed. Sometimes she'd watch television, but when she did that, more often than not she'd end up waking stiff and uncomfortable on the couch in the middle of the night with something disorientingly strange on the screen. Rousing herself enough to shuffle down the hall to her empty bed with its cold sheets usually left her anxious and awake, waiting for dawn.

She turned on her side. Instead, here she was in Crossport, in the room where she'd grown up, smelling breakfast. She knew this should make her feel good. If she'd imagined this scene in one of her darker moods in New York, she'd have imbued it with a feeling of homecoming and a sense of welcome. But the reality of it, as usual, left her feeling hollow and displaced.

She didn't belong here, she knew. Returning to this place and forcing herself to put on a warm, chummy show for Christmas was ludicrous. She should leave, go home, and live the life she'd made for herself. The life she'd chosen to lead, not this one that had been thrust upon her in her youth.

But she didn't want to go back, she realized, picturing her apartment house. The long, brown hallway leading up to her door. The tiny, crowded living room with the bills piled on the table. The refrigerator filled with nothing but condiments. The bedroom she'd left in a shambles, clothing strewn on every surface, a pile in the corner waiting to go to the dry cleaners. No, she didn't want to be there. And she didn't want to be here. There was no place, she thought morosely, she wanted to be. And the fact that it was almost Christmas only irritated her more.

She rose and sat on the edge of the bed. She needed to shop. Another irritating thing about Christmas . . . the obligatory exchanging of gifts. She didn't know what her parents wanted or needed. She didn't even seem to be a part of their life anymore. Her sister would be easy, she guessed. They still wore about the same size. But the kidswho knew? She remembered enough about being one herself to know that kids always wanted something special, something specific, and if it wasn't exactly right you might as well have given them dirtor worse, clothes.

She smiled at the thought. Her aunt was always giving her and Caroline clothes when they were growing up, and they were invariably disappointed that the big boxes that had looked so exciting under the tree held nothing but new tights or undershirts, or, once in a while, shoes.

But most of the time, Christmas had been fun, she remembered. A magical time of anticipation and goodwill. The fact that for the last few years she'd been too harried to enjoy it only added to her depression. It was a cruel trick life played, to set you up for Santa Claus and then give you nothing but a season of shopping and bills.

The shower revived her a little, as did the thought of some fresh-brewed coffee. She should go to L. L. Bean, she thought, and pick up some decent snow boots for herself. It had been so long since she'd needed outdoor clothing, nothing she had was suitable. She'd go to Freeport where all the outlets were, she decided, and just buy the first things she saw and get the whole wretched business out of the way. Then she'd only haveshe cringed at the thoughtthirteen more days to kill until she could leave here and get back to New York.

The image of the dimly lit hallway to her apartment asserted itself in her mind again and she stood up abruptly.

Coffee, she thought. I'll feel much better after some coffee. Then I'll go shopping. After all, I have time now. It could be fun.

But she didn't feel much better. In fact, she felt worse. She was hyped up and irritable and couldn't leave the house soon enough.

Then, shopping in Freeport, she found herself growing even more aggravated as shoppers alternately pushed or ambled around her. The snow piled high on the sides of the roads and sidewalks didn't help matters either. A walkway that might normally have accommodated several people abreast now only allowed for two at the most.

Susannah edged her way past someone who stood looking in a shop window. She couldn't decide if she was more annoyed by those who felt their missions so imperative that they shoved others out of the way, or those who seemed to have no mission at all and meandered pointlessly in front of her as she tried to get to the door, or the register, or a particular item that would complete the obligation to someone on her list.

"I hate Christmas," she growled to the back of someone's head as they pushed past her, carrying Susannah's bags forward with the tide and making her drop the small one she held with her pinky. Stopping to pick it up was a challenge, as the crowd surged around her, knees and shopping bags narrowly missing Susannah's face as she bent. She imagined having to explain the presence of a paper cut on her cheek when she got back to New York. Of course that was an eternity away, she thought with renewed despair. She could probably break a limb and by the time she got back no one would be the wiser.

As she rose, trying to shove the little bag into one of the larger ones without losing hold of the plastic ones in her other hand whose handles were stretching and cutting into her fingers, she caught a glimpse of a bright red coat through the bodies ahead of her. She popped up on her toes to look over the sea of heads and saw the fur-trimmed hood round a corner and disappear.

Gripping her packages, she accelerated through the crowd. Trying a new strategy, she pushed carefully against the loiterers and followed in the wake of the more purposeful walkers.

At the corner she stopped, staring down the considerably less-trafficked street and seeing no one at all, least of all an old man in a crimson parka. No shops lined this road, just a row of old Victorian houses with neatly fenced yards and snow-blanketed gardens.

"Hello again," someone said from behind her.

Susannah turned, pulling her bags up to her chest with aching arms to clutch them in a bundle to her body. She looked for the owner of the voice and found him coming around a group of tourists who all talked at once and pointed in opposite directions at totally different shops.

"Joe," she said, her stomach hitting the ground in a juvenile, maddening way. She drew her brows together sternly. "It seems I'm destined to see you everywhere. What are you doing here?"

He held up a slim bag from Laura Ashley, making her wonder who that was for. "Same thing you are. Don't look so happy to see me," he added with a grin. "People will wonder."

She laughed cynically. "These people aren't wondering about anything except where their next dollar is goingtheir bags or their bellies."

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Now, now. No need to get nasty. Shopping is hard on everyone. It's one of God's trials."

"Christmas is one of God's trials." She shifted the weight in her arms. "I swear I think He invented it just to make us all appreciate the rest of the year."

"What have you got against Christmas?" he asked, nimbly taking several of her bags from her and herding her down the sidewalk along the quiet street.

She snorted and pointedly looked behind them. "That."

"You don't have to be here."

"Yeah, right. And Christmas doesn't have to be commercial. I love it when people say that."

"You don't believe it?"

"Of course not. I think it's just something people say to convince themselves they're not losing sight of the meaning of Christmas."

"Which is?"

"Who knows anymore? Maybe there isn't any. Christmas is commercial these days and that's all there is to it. So the meaning isn't lost; it's just not there. Show people you love them by buying them something. End of story. Merry Christmas."

Joe shook his head and blew out a little gust of air. "Whew. I guess you won't be buying Tiny Tim the Christmas goose this year, then."

Susannah suddenly realized how she must sound, and knew that compared to someone like Joesomeone balanced and self-assured, someone happy with life and blessedly calmshe must seem the worst sort of wretch. A discontented soul. Which was, she conceded to herself, essentially right. But she didn't need to go around inflicting it on other people. If she was unhappy she should keep it to herself. She was becoming one of those people she'd disliked so much when she first moved to New York, the ones who seemed to think unhappiness was a fashion statement.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I guess I'm a little stressed."

"It sounds like it," he said. "It must be hard to be you."

For a second she bristled, tried to think of a cutting comeback, then gave up. With the hint of a lump in her throat, she laughed. "It is. It really is."

He laughed with her. "Maybe you're just hungry," he said, steering her down a walkway toward a restaurant in one of the Victorian houses. THE SMYTHE HOUSE, read a small, hand-lettered sign hanging from the front porch.

She realized with a start that she hadn't eaten all day and it must now be after three o'clock. The thought of sitting down and eating something hot and homemade filled her with hope. And despite herself, the thought of sitting across from Joe Cameron while she did it made it even better.

"Starving," she admitted.

"Then allow me." He smiled, held the door open, and glanced down at her from the corners of his eyes, a slice of blue above wind-reddened cheeks.

They entered the little house and were immediately overtaken by the smell of cinnamon and bread. A dainty, well-dressed woman approached and picked up two menus from a wooden pouch on the wall.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a smile, Susannah noted, directed at Joe.

He nodded and glanced at his watch. "Two for lunch, if you're still serving."

Susannah noticed that the clock on the wall read nearly four o'clock. Her stomach growled. Joe glanced at her with a smile. "I haven't eaten all day," she explained.

"Then I guess we know your next dollar's not going into your bag," he teased.

"Sure it is," she said, raising her chin in the air and following the dainty lady to a table. "Lunch is on you."

They ordered hot soup and cold salads, warm bread with honeyed butter, and mulled cider to drink. Susannah felt so rejuvenated she couldn't believe she'd been so surly.

"So, you've never been married?" she asked Joe through a mouthful of bread.

He shook his head. "Not even tempted."

"That's surprising." She pulled off another piece of bread and put it in her mouth. "Why's that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. You're such an eligible bachelor, I guess. Especially for Crossport."

He paused, chewing thoughtfully. "You really hate the place, don't you?"

"Oh, I don't know." She brushed the crumbs from her fingers onto her plate.

"You say the name with such derision. Was it so awful for you there?"

She picked up her cider and hesitated before sipping. He looked at her as if trying to make out the shapes on the lawn through a frosted window.

"You were there," she said. "Didn't you feel a little . . . confined?"

He thought about it a moment. "Not really. No. I mean, it's small, sure. And I did get tired of everyone expecting me to turn into my father. But I never disliked the place, or even wanted to live anywhere else especially."

"God," she said, "I couldn't wait to get out of there. Everyone expected me to follow in Caroline's footsteps. I think I'd've lost my mind."

"She seems pretty happy."

Happier than you. Susannah head the unspoken accusation as clearly as if he'd said the words aloud.

"I'm happy," she stated belligerently.

He kept a straight face for all of three seconds before bursting out laughing. She managed to keep hers for three more and then joined him, reluctantly.

"Well, I am," she added, through chuckles forced out by the sheer absurdity of her tone.

Joe continued to laugh, leaning back and tossing his napkin onto the table. He watched her through glittering, delighted eyes.

''So maybe I'm not, completely. But one thing's certain," she said, deciding on a different tack, "I could never be happy in Crossport. Too much baggage there. Too much history. Too small and too . . . I don't know." She shook her head.

"Provincial?" he provided.

She looked at him sharply. "You want to paint me as a snob, go ahead. But you have to admit the place has its backward qualities."

"That's what makes it so great."

She scoffed. "How?"

"It's not trying to be anything it isn't. It's small-town America. It's real people and real lives."

"That's so condescending."

"I'm condescending?"

"Yes. To think that just because people are struggling financially or doing commonplace things that makes them more 'real' than someone pursuing more sophisticated goals, that's condescending. Reverse condescension, perhaps, but still."

"'Reverse condescension'?"

"Yes. It's a cliché to put down the working class, so the truly fashionable glorify them and put down their own set."

Joe didn't answer right away, so she picked up another piece of bread even though if she ate another bite she'd risk exploding.

"Boy," he said finally. "You're tough."

"Just realistic." She dropped the bread onto her plate and picked up her water glass, suffused by a feeling of sudden sadness.

"Everyone's got their own reality, I guess." He gazed at his plate with a strangely blank expression.

And therein lies the rub, Susannah thought. We could sit here and have a nice lunch, and laugh like I haven't laughed with any other man, but our differences will kill it. Better to know that now.

The waitress left their check on the table, and Susannah reached toward the floor for her purse.

"Nope," Joe said, leaning to one side to extricate his wallet from a back pocket. "Lunch is on me."

"Oh, come on. I was kidding," she said, feeling closer to the floor for the familiar lump of leather that was her overpacked purse.

"I wasn't," he said, throwing a twenty onto the bill.

Susannah picked up the edge of the tablecloth and peered into the darkness underneath. Then she scotted out her chair and looked all around it.

"Oh, my God," she said, pushing her packages aside so that they crumpled, loud and dominolike, onto their sides. "Someone stole my purse."

Chapter Five

For the life of him, Joe could not figure out why women carried so much stuff in their purses. From the sound of it, Susannah had lost not just her whole documentable history but most of her future as well. She would now, she contended, have to spend the better part of eternity in line at the DMV, or calling her credit card companies to cancel her accounts, or sitting on hold at her bank to freeze her checking, ATM, and savings access. And what with it being the holidays, her prospects were even more dire.

"I'm so sorry to have stuck you with the lunch bill," she said for the hundredth time on the way back to Crossport in his car. Joe was about to respond, again, that he'd planned to pay for lunch anyway, when she added unexpectedly, "Please don't tell my mother."

"Don't tell your mother?" he repeated. He couldn't help the laugh that accompanied the question. "Will you be in trouble?"

She grimaced. "Easy for you to laugh, but she'd kill me if she knew I was beholden to a Cameron for lunch. I think she's still bothered you rescued me in the snow." "Beholden to a Cameron? What is this, the eighteen hundreds? Do we have a family feud?"

Instead of scoffing at the notion as he expected, Susannah shrugged. "You don't. And I don't," she added with a quick sideways glance at him, "but my mother seemsthat is she feels sort of competitive with your family."

"Competitive," he mused, wondering in what conceivable area, specifically, they competed.

"I know it's absurd, but that's the way she is. It's nothing against your family personally."

He looked at her, at her pink cheeks and lowered eyes, and realized for the first time that perhaps what he had always taken for snobbery was really a form of defensiveness. Seeing her now with her proud chin dropped practically to her chest and her hands fidgeting in her lap, it seemed obvious. She was embarrassed because her mother, she'd said, felt competitive with his family.

"I don't think I understand," he said, "completely. How do you mean she feels competitive?"

"You know. . . ." She flipped a hand out indifferently. "She just . . . feels like she has to keep up with you. Like she can't lookI don't knowneedy around you. Like . . . like . . ." She made an exasperated sound. "Like you think you're better than we are."

"Like I think I'm better?"

"Stop repeating everything I say!"

He shook his head and braked for a corner, turning the wheel slowly and proceeding with more care than was needed. "I don't think I'm better than anyone, Susannah." He shot her a glance, caught her profile etched against the moving backdrop in the window.

"Not 'you' specifically," she said. "'You' collectively."

"Ah."

She gestured with her hand again, palm up. "You Camerons."

"So we're all judging you, not just me."

She turned to him, her body rigid, he could tell even from the corner of his eye. "I'm not saying it, Joe; my mother is. It's not what I think."

He spoke deliberately, with the dawning of realization. "Don't you?"

"What do you mean?" She asked the question too quickly.

He saw her note it and press her lips together, turning her attention to the side window. "I think you agree with her," he ventured. "I think that's why you don't like me."

Color shot to her cheeks and she turned, opening her mouth to speak. "I" She stopped and closed her mouth, then turned her head away again. He noticed the way her hands knotted in her lap. "That's not true," she said to the window.

"What's not true, that you agree with her or that you don't like me?"

"Either one!" she exclaimed, looking directly at him in her vehemence. But she couldn't hold the look and turned immediately back to the window, adding, "Both." She ungripped her hands and rubbed them flat on her thighs. "Honestly, Joe, I don't know why you would say such a thing."

He took his eyes from the road to look at her. She gazed out the window, her back straight, her feet flat on the floor, and her hands on her thighs.

"Because it's true, Susannah. You never liked me. Even back in high school"

"And you liked me?" she accused, with forceful, flashing eyes. But she obviously did not intend to meet his, for when she did she quickly faced front again.

He chuckled. "Well, no, I can't say I did. Not in high school anyway."

She laughed once, a dry, resigned sound.

"But I do now," he added.

She slid a look toward him and he smiled, watching the road. "Yes, I definitely think I do now."

The comment didn't do much to loosen her up, but Joe was glad he'd said it anyway. He had the feeling they'd both been judging each other all these years with very little accuracy.

They rode in silence for several minutes, the snow-covered landscape whipping past them in an icy blur and the tires hissing on pavement wet with melted snow. As the sun set, the sky across the tops of the trees deepened into a breathtaking indigo.

"Oh," he heard Susannah breathe, and he glanced across her to see, halfway up a distant hillside, a spotlit clapboard farmhouse fronted by two enormous pines. Covered in tiny white Christmas lights, the trees looked like enormous icicles rising from the earth, sparkling with life and loveliness.

"I wonder what they're doing now," she murmured.

He knew who she meant. The family. For surely there was one in such a contented-looking house. Though they were much too far away, he knew if he could look inside the windows he'd see past lace curtains to a flickering fireplace and a spacious, dinner-scented, yellow-lit kitchen.

"The kids are probably finishing their homework upstairs," he said. "Mom's in the kitchen in a ruffled apron and perfect hair. Dad's in the family room with his feet up, reading the paper. And the whole place smells like roasting chicken."

She laughed, and rolled a look over her shoulder at him. "Where did you grow up? With the Cleavers?"

"What do you think they're doing?"

She scoffed. "Mom and daughter are in the kitchen arguing. Daughter is going out and Mom doesn't want her to. Moms cooking . . . meatloaf. Noliver. With turnips. Dad either hasn't come home yet, or he's in the garage, waiting for the last possible moment to come in so he doesn't have to hear them fighting."

The house passed out of sight behind them and they sat quiet in the rapidly darkening car.

"I guess," she said after a moment, "that sounded pretty psychotic, didn't it?"

Joe laughed, relieved that she'd noticed.

"I like your scenario better," she said quietly. "Is that how it was at your house?"

"Not exactly. Not always. What about you? Was that an accurate picture of yours?"

She took a deep breath. "No. Well, yes, sometimes. But I guess it wasn't that way all the time. That just seems to be the way I remember it. But I know it wasn't that way all the time. When I try, I can remember some nice times."

"Like when?"

She sighed and thought for a moment. Then he caught a glimpse of a smile curling her lips. "Oh, sometimes Caroline and my mom and I would get into these giddy laughing fits. I don't know how they'd start, but before we knew it everything was funny. We'd be crying with it, wiping our eyes, our stomachs hurting. I can still picture my mother dabbing at her eyes with that apron." She was quiet a moment. "It was a ruffled apron. But her hair was never perfect."

"That sounds nice. I never did that with either of my parents. Maybe if I'd had a brother or something. Name another time."

She pushed the hair from her forehead with two fingers. He liked the way it fell naturally back into order, shiny and smooth.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Another happy time. Tell me about your favorite Christmas."

She frowned and looked down at her fingers fiddling with the tab of her jacket zipper. "I can't remember having a favorite Christmas."

"Your favorite Christmas memory, then. A tradition you especially liked."

She cocked her head to one side. "I was thinking the other day about my dad and the Christmas lights. How he'd lay them all out on the floor to straighten them and look for dead bulbs."

"That's funny. My dad always did that, too."

"I think it's one of those unwritten rules. The dad always does the lights. Then once they're up he's out of it. Mom and kids do the decorating."

Joe chuckled. "That's right."

"And I remember caroling when we were little. That was always fun. People like the Johnsons and the Sanderses, friends of my parents' mostly, I guess. We'd take the dog and go into town and wander around singing. The dog would bark. Then we'd finish in the square, where they'd have hot cider and these warm, sticky buns . . . did you ever do that? I don't remember you there."

"No, I never did." He smiled sadly. "It sounds fun. Was it your dog?"

"Yeah. Peanut. He was a grumpy little thing, but we used to dress him up in little sweaters my mom would knit and take him out like he was some kind of show dog."

"I'm sure he felt like one."

She looked at him. "What about you? What's your favorite Christmas memory?"

"Well, I don't know if I have a favorite either, but I do remember one Christmas. Actually I think it was Christmas Eve, and I was in high school. I walked down to the square to go ice-skating."

"Walked! From your house? That's quite a hike."

"Well, I was in high school. Too young and stupid to know better, or something." He shook his head. "Anyway, my dad wouldn't give me the car. He wanted me to stay home with the family, but I was too cool for that. My uncle was there, and his new wife. Big adult scene that I was not into at all. I'd planned to meet Kevin McMann and Matt Brill in the square. I think Matt was bringing a six-pack or something."

"Very Christmassy," Susannah said, a smile in her voice.

He could no longer make out her face in the darkened car, but he could picture her perfectly, from her new L.L. Bean boots to her cream-colored turtleneck. He could even see the way her gray eyes crinkled and her long lashes met at the corners when she laughed, though that hadn't happened all that often.

"So I get down there and Matt and Kevin are nowhere to be found. Turns out their parents didn't want them going out either, and they'd had sense enough to listen. But I got down therethe place was desertedand met up with this old guy I'd never seen before. Really nice old guy and we got to talking. And he told me this story about a boy who did everything he could to please his parents. Everything they asked, he complied withkept his room clean, got good grades, all that. But he hated it. And eventually he hated his parents for making him do all that stuff. Then he tells me about this other kid who never did anything his parents told him but only what he wanted. He made himself happy and his parents miserable. Then he asked me which I'd rather be."

He glanced at Susannah, who was looking at him strangely.

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd rather be the first boy. Who wants it on their conscience to make their parents miserable?"

"So what did he say?"

Joe laughed, remembering. "He said he thought that's what I'd pick. At the time, the conversation made no sense to me at all."

"I'll say. And it does now?"

"You know, I've thought of that story so many times, it's amazing. I was the boy who did everything for his parents. And it was halfway through med school that I realized I was beginning to resent them for it. Actually hate them for my unhappy life. That's when I dropped out.''

"And became the boy who made his parents miserable?"

"Yeah. I guess. For a while anyway."

"That was kind of a pointless story he told you. I mean, if those are the only choices . . ."

"No. What I eventually decided was the point is that everyone is only responsible for his own happiness. I mean, if my parents choose to be miserable because I've decided to be happy, isn't that wrong? And if your parents choose to be unhappy because you've had lunch with me . . ." He shot her a grin but she wasn't looking.

"So simple," he thought he heard her murmur.

He glanced at her again and knew a nearly overwhelming urge to pull off the road and take her in his arms. The desire was so strong he could imagine how the muscles in her arms would feel as he gripped them, the way the touch of her lips would be cool and sweet as he kissed her, the way her hands might hold on to him. . . .

"What happened then?" she asked. "To the guy?"

He took a deep breath and squeezed his hands tight around the steering wheel. "Oh, he left. I never saw him again." Joe remembered the point of his story. "But after thatwe'd been sitting in the gazeboI saw someone walking down Kiln Road toward the square. Someone in a white jacket, and I thought it must be Matt. So I waited. But it was you." He turned his head and saw her start, peering quickly at him in the dark.

"Me?" "Yes. And you were wearing a white ski coat with a fur-trimmed hood that lay flat against your back. You had ice skates tied together by the laces hanging around your neck." He paused, remembering, and the only sound was that of the tires rumbling on rough pavement, with the occasional double clunk as they crossed over a road joint.

"I remember your hair was long," he added into the silence, his fingers wishing as they had that night that he could touch her thick, silky hair, just once. "And it hung into the hood of your coat."

She didn't speak immediately. Then, as if deciding he was finished, she said, "I remember that coat. It was a White Stag. It had a little metal deer, a stag I guess, on the end of the zipper. I loved that coat."

He shook himself out of his reverie. "Well, it looked good on you. So anyway, you got your skates on and started spinning around on the ice with the Christmas lights all around you. I remember the song they were playing was 'Hark! the Herald Angels Sing,' and I thought you looked just like an angel would, if one came down to earth to ice-skate."

She started to laugh.

"What?" he said, smiling. "You were pretty good."

"Joe Cameron, that is not your favorite Christmas memory."

"It's one of them."

"But you just admitted you didn't even like me back then." She gazed at him with an amused smile, like a tolerant teacher with an errant child.

"But I always thought you were beautiful."

Their eyes caught and held for as long as Joe dared keep his from the road. She looked surprised, he thought. Not in a drop-jawed way, but in a slow, deep, bewildered way. Like she'd suddenly found a drawerful of thoughts she'd never known she had before.

"I don't remember that night," she said finally, after he'd peeled her eyes from her and looked back at the road.

The headlights cast a narrow path of light between the dark pines and plowed white mountains of snow lining the road.

"I remember it every year. I don't know why."

"Did you ever see that old man again?"

"No. I guess he was just visiting someone. Somebody's grandfather or something."

"Joe," she said, with a suddenly imperative note in her voice. "Was he wearing a red parka, by any chance?"

"A what?" He laughed.

"A redNever mind." She gave an embarrassed-sounding chuckle. "You'd have remembered."

"Did you say a red parka? Why on earth would you ask that?"

"You just reminded me about someone, that's all. I met this old man in the square the other night, in the gazebo, in fact. And he was wearing a bright red winter coat. I remember thinking he was someone's grandfather, too."

"Did he tell you a story?"

"No, but he told me that you never really feel connected to someone until you learn their name. Or something like that."

"Sounds like you had just as meaningful a conversation as I did." They laughed together and Joe felt the desire to hold her grow stronger. He had the indistinct feeling that if he touched her gently enough he could coax her out of her shell of misery. He half thought she wanted him to coax her out of it.

"But you know . . . the funny thing is," she continued, "as soon as we finished our conversation, that old man and I, I saw you. That's when you picked me up yesterday."

"So I had a weird conversation with an old guy and saw you. Then you had one and saw me?"

"A weird conversation in the gazebo with an old man we never saw before or again. What did yours look like?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, turning onto Kiln Road. "I can't really remember. Like an old man. Like someone who would play an old man in an old movie."

"Like one of those character actors from the forties whose face you know but can never come up with their name?" she prodded.

"Exactly. The quintessential old man."

"Mine too!"

"Or maybe I just remember him that way because of movies I've seen in the meantime."

"I don't know. . . ." She folded her arms together in front of her chest as if she was cold as they neared her house. "It seems weird that we'd both remember him that way."

Joe pulled up slowly in front of her house and shut off the lights. When she didn't immediately go for her bags he shut off the engine as well. He shifted in his seat, laid his arm along the back, and faced her. "Well, Susannah Murphy," he said, looking at her. She was more beautiful than ever, he thought. But now, unlike high school, it had less to do with her looks.

Her lids lowered and she looked down at her hands. "Well, Joe Cameron," she said, then lifted her head. "Who'd have thought we'd have such a nice time together?"

"And all I had to do was steal your purse."

Her mouth dropped open and she gaped at him. "You're joking," she said then, realizing.

He laughed. "Are you disappointed?"

She smiled wryly. "Well, I would like it back, but not at the expense of you becoming a thief."

"Thank you." He inclined his head. "That'll save me some trouble."

His hand, where it rested along the back of the bench seat, lay near a lock of her hair, and he let his fingers reach out to touch it. Thick and silky, just as he'd imagined. He bet it smelled good, too.

"Susannah." He touched her shoulder and she jumped. "Are you okay?" He kneaded her shoulder with one hand.

"Just tired," she said. She looked distinctly uncomfortable but made no move to get out of the car, so he continued the soft motion of his hand.

"You feel pretty tense."

"I'm sure you can tell a lot through my coat," she said dryly. "But I am tense."

"Because of your purse?"

She laughed lightly. "Hardly. Well, partly. Mostly I just don't want to go inside yet."

Joe didn't realize he'd stopped moving his hand until the profile he'd been studying suddenly turned to him. Her eyes were lit by the house lights, and he could see the hint of even, white teeth where her lips parted. He brushed his fingers across her cheek, felt the cool, dry skin and downy softness of it. She didn't turn her eyes from his.

"Susannah Murphy," he said again, quietly, as if committing this new idea of her into his mind. This fragile, striking, susceptible idea of Susannah Murphy.

He leaned toward her, his coat crunching in the quiet. Her breath skimmed his mouth the moment before they kissed, then sighed out of her as their lips met.

They came together softly, tentatively, taking small, exploratory kisses in the cold, darkened car. He felt her tremble and he was just about to pull back when she raised her arm to his shoulder and laid her hand along his neck. His skin tingled as her fingers delved into his hair, the warmth of her hand pulling him closer, deepening the contact of their mouths.

He circled an arm around her waist and pulled her across his body so he cradled her, chest to chest, her hair falling over his hand, her back to the steering wheel.

His tongue slid into her mouth and hers met it, slowly, deliciously, the exquisite torture of control and desire. Then, as their bodies melded together, the kiss became heated. His hands gripped her coat; one of her hands fisted in his hair, the other on his sleeve, and their mouths moved together to create something he'd never known before.

Fire licked his heart, and intense passion, like a form of panic, consumed him. He wanted to crush her to him, mold her to his body, press her soul into his. But he held back, feeling he had to be careful, had to be gentle, light and coercive, as if he held a sparrow, or she might fly away from him.

Her breath came rapidly, desperately, with his. And it wasn't until they broke apart that he realized the trembling he thought solely hers, was his as well.

Chapter Six

"I have to go." Susannah gasped. She placed a hand at the base of her throat, feeling her heart pound through the thick folds of her turtleneck.

Every nerve in her body was alive and vibrating on the surface of her skin. He wanted her, she could feel it, and for some reason the power behind his passion intimidated her.

Or was it her own passion that frightened her? she asked herself. Because she couldn't fathom where this flood of desire had come from. She'd never felt this way with Kenneth. She'd never felt this way with anyone. And she had no idea how to respond. With her body consumed by feelings that threatened to swallow her whole, all she could think to do was escape.

His breath coursed through the darkness with hers as both of them struggled for control. Susannah feared it was beyond her. If he touched her again, if he leaned in and took her with another kiss like that one, she would be lost. Right here, right now, in the car, she would give him anything. And no doubt live to regret it.

She shook her head vigorously. "II'm sorry. I don't knowthis is so unexpected. I don't know what's come over me."

"The same thing that came over me, Susannah," he said. His voice, though quiet, rocked the darkness with its tangibility, making everything more real.

"I swear, this isn't me. I'm not like this. . . ." she blustered, pushing her hair from her face with both hands.

"Like what?"

She swallowed and pulled herself back into the seat, folding her arms together in front of her and huddling against the cold she could no longer feel.

"Like this!" She knew she made no sense to him, but she couldn't clarify her feelings to herself, let alone him. She should leave, she thought, as she'd said she must. But for some reason she couldn't make herself open the door. For some reason she felt an overwhelming need to make him understand.

He laughed and the sound unnerved her. "That's too bad. I like you like this."

Every inch of her skin burned, and she couldn't look at his face.

"Well, it's not me. You may like it, but it isn't me. II should go. I can't do this. I'm sorry." She took a deep breath and tried to regain some of her lost composure. But in the dark space created by his silence it was impossible. Go, she told herself. Open the door and leave, before you make a bigger fool of yourself.

"Look," she continued, "I know I sound insane, but I'mI guess I'm just not ready for this. I mean" She laughed helplessly. ''I don't even know what this is. Maybe nothing. But even if this is nothingor maybe especially if this is nothingI can't deal with it right now. I just, you see I just broke up with this guy and my job is really bad right now andGod, I just feel so"

"Susannah." His voice was soft.

She stopped speaking.

"It's all right," he said. "I understand. I don't exactly know what I was doing either, but . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it." He stopped, shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She couldn't make out his eyes because the light from the house shone in hers, making her feel even more exposed.

How sorry was he? she wondered. With mercurial swiftness, her panic about her own feelings switched to panic about his. "It's okay. Iit's my fault, too."

"No, it's not. I feel like a jerk. My only intention was to help you out, to give you a ride home, that's all. I don't want you to think I purposely took advantage or anything. I didn't. I didn't plan this. I just want you to knowI'm not like that."

"You didn't take advantage." That made her seem really pathetic, as if she were so obviously vulnerable she'd be open to just anyone's advances.

He studied her a moment. "Okay. Good."

She glared at him. Good?

"Good?" she heard pop from her mouth.

He looked confused. "Yeah. Ithat's good. Isn't it?"

"Why? I mean, do I seem so at risk to you? As if you could accidentally sweep me off my feet and then have to figure out how to set me back down again?" Susannah wanted to bite off her own tongue. What in God's name was she talking about? But for some reason his words stung and she couldn't let it drop.

"No. I just"

"I mean, it's not as if I've been waiting around for you all these years, Joe," she heard herself continue, her tone defensive and petulant. Part of her wanted to clap a hand over her own mouth.

"Of course not"

"For your information I'm engaged to a doctor in New York. Well, not officially. But sort of." She closed her eyes and wished she could suck the words back with her next breath. But they were out there and she was now officially an idiot.

His head rose and fell once. "Congratulations." Irony coated the word. "I take it this isn't the guy you just broke up with."

"I've got to go." Face burning in the dark, she grabbed the door handle and yanked up as hard as she could. The metal snapped off in her hand and she glared at the pocked piece of chrome.

"Sorry." Joe took the piece from her hand and leaned over. Susannah didn't breathe as he leaned across her. His chest and shoulders, though he was making an obvious effort not to touch her, obliterated everything else in her mind as he jammed the piece back into place. "It always comes off."

As he pushed back to his side she could not take her eyes from the worn leather of his coat. A moment ago she'd wanted to curl up inside of that leather, so well broken in by his solid, agile body. She'd inhaled the scent of soap on his skin like it was a drug and she a junkie. Was she losing her mind? He'd kissed her, and she'd wanted him to. She'd more than wanted him to; she'd practically leaped into it. So why in the world did she have to go and tell him she was engaged?

"Susannah, why are you so mad?" Joe asked. "I thought . . . I mean, are you okay?"

No, I'm insane, she imagined saying. And, oh, by the way, just kidding about the engagement.

"I'm fine," she said curtly. "I'm not mad. It's justChristmas, you know?" She pressed her lips together and stared at the point where the road disappeared in darkness. "Everyone's emotions run high this time of year. Everyone's looking for some kind of emotional Christmas present, just like they always wanted or thought they had as a child. But I'm not going to be your emotional Christmas present, Joe. I just don't have it in me, not now, not for a fling. So let's just forget about this and get back to normal, okay? Thank you for a lovely lunch."

She pulled up on the handle carefully and the door swung open. The overhead light came on, bathing them in a dim, uncomfortable light. Hating herself with every breath, Susannah picked up her bags from the floor of the car. She couldn't look at him, but she thought she could tell from his silence that he was at the very least confused, and most likely angry.

Once she had all the bag handles in her hands, she paused, her feet on the ground outside the car, her back to him.

Don't leave it like this, her mind insisted. Say something to make it better.

She had to get them back to where they'd been at lunch, laughing together, companionable. Maybe he would understand, somehow. Maybe he would . . . well, she couldn't even think what he could do to save her.

"You must think I'm an idiot, Joe," she said quietly.

He hesitated. Then, "No. I don't think you're an idiot."

She laughed hopelessly and looked back at him, feeling more dispirited by the minute. "It was a lovely kiss."

He smiled. "It was."

"I am sorry." Boy, was she sorry. And stupid. And confused. And suddenly very, very tired.

"Me too," he said. Then his hand reached forward and turned the key in the ignition. With a brief dimming of the overhead light, the car started.

Susannah got out of the truck and turned back to the door. "Good night," she said, bending to look in at him.

"Good night, Susannah." After a moment's pause, he leaned over and pulled the door shut for her.

Then, as she stood in front of her house, breath fogging in front of her in the cold, the heavy bags' handles cutting into her palms, he drove off, leaving her alone with lips that still throbbed from their kiss.

She stood for a long time, not feeling the cold or the numbness in her fingers and toes, just watching the spot where his taillights had disappeared. After a while she dropped the bags. They crunched in the ice-encrusted snow at her feet.

When she first saw the figure emerge from the darkness of the road, she thought she was hallucinating. She'd been seeing Joe's taillights in her mind's eye for so long that the red parka looked like it could be one of them. But as the figure shuffled closer, Susannah recognized Quinn.

Perhaps he was coming to see her father, she thought, mustering some enthusiasm for this further proof that her father was not crazy. Now if only there was proof that she wasn't. Because she sure felt like it at the moment. She'd just kissed a wonderful man who made her feel things she'd never felt before, and instead of holding on for dear life, she sent him off with a lambasting and a lame apology.

Crazy, she thought. Or, no, maybe just stupid.

"You're confused," Quinn said as he approached.

For a second she wondered if he'd just seen Joe down the road. "About what?"

"Everything, it seems. You want Joe, but you don't think you should have him, so you push him away." He was close enough now for her to make out the white of his eyebrows past the fur trim of his hood. He wasn't even breathing hard after trudging through the snow. God only knew how far he'd walked. And where had he come from? He was walking toward town. Behind him was the road to Camden.

"And you don't want your job," he continued equably, "but you think you should, so you hang on to it. Even though it doesn't make you very happy." He smiled. "It's all very simple."

With that, he bent and started picking up her bags.

In her advanced state of confusion and despair, Susannah didn't even know where to begin asking him how he knew what she'd been thinking, so she simply asked, "What are you doing?"

"Let's go sit on the porch a minute."

She was still thinking about what he'd said, about pushing Joe away and clinging to her job, as he passed her and made his way up the driveway to the front walk.

"Okay, so I don't like my job much," she admitted, turning to follow him. "But I like that I can pay my bills. I like that I'm respected and make good money. Is there something so terrible about that?"

Quinn shrugged as he set the bags by the door. "You tell me."

"I'll tell you what's terrible," she said, feeling a sudden desire to get to the bottom of her own neurosis. "It's terrible that I'm dreading going back home. That I can't stand the thought of my office, or my apartment. What's the matter with me that I've made such a mess of my life?"

Quinn sat on the porch swing and patted the spot next to him with a mittened hand.

She sat next to him. "I did like it in the beginning. Then I got tired. And when I fell out of love with Kenneth and the job got rough and my apartment, well . . ."

"You just don't want to be there anymore."

She laughed and laid her head on the back of the swing. Tears pricked at her eyes. "I know. I've thought about that since I got here. But I don't know what else to do."

"What about Joe?"

"Joe?" She lifted her head and laughed. "Yeah, right. That's just what I need. To hop into a relationship when my life is so screwed up. I should figure myself out first; then maybe I'll have something to offer another relationship." She dabbed the tears out of the corners of her eyes, resolved. "All the books say that."

"Ah, I see. Yes, it would be very nice to be able to present yourself to someone like a completed work of art, wouldn't it? Something they could look at and say 'My, what a pretty picture.'"

She frowned. "Well, I wasn't thinking of something quite so . . . passive. I mean, I know you're never really completed, in the finished sense. I just meant . . . you know, if I knew myself a little better I'd be more prepared for a relationship."

"You know yourself perfectly well, Susannah," Quinn said, pushing the swing a little with his foot.

"Ha!" she burst out. "Right."

"You do." He looked over at her and smiled, eyes twinkling in the porch lights. "Everything you just told me, you've known for a long time, haven't you? You know yourself, Susannah; you just don't want to admit it. And that's okay. But that's why you're unhappy."

"So, if I know myself so well, what's my problem with Joe?"

He chuckled. "I can't answer all your questions for you, Susannah. But sometimes, if you treat someone generously, they surprise you. And you can surprise yourself."

Susannah sighed and relaxed into the motion of the swing. She hadn't treated Joe generously, that was for sure.

Inside, the lights on the tree winked on and off, while the bulbs on the porch painted a rainbow of colors on the walls and floor, spilling some of their cheer out onto the ice-covered yard. After a few minutes of rocking, Susannah heard from inside the sound of a Christmas carol sung by Nat King Cole.

She suddenly remembered a night from her childhood when she'd sneaked downstairs to try to see Santa, and the same song had been playing. In the family room strewn with rolls of wrapping paper and empty ornament boxes her mother and father had danced in the light of the Christmas tree. At the time she'd been disappointed, but now she thought how cozy and secure that moment must have been. With your two children upstairs, waiting for Santa Claus, your husband held you tight and moved you slowly to the sound of soft music. What could be better than that?

That was love, she thought, with a feeling of revelation. That was the meaning of Christmas. How simple and happy life could be.

Just then headlights shone through the wall of trees on the road from Camden. The low purr of an engine floated over the snow-muffled earth and Susannah felt her heart contract with excitement. If it was Joe . . . oh, if God only let it be Joe, she thought with elation. But it was an old Ford Bronco and not Joe's pickup that crawled slowly past the house.

Instead of feeling deflated, Susannah felt an unquenchable desire sweep through her and she stood up with the power of it. She had to talk to Joe. She'd made a terrible mistake sending him away. For she knew, suddenly, as if the revelation had been spoken by her very soul, that she was in love with him.

She laughed. "I'm in love with him," she confessed aloud, her voice floating with wonderment over the icy air. She turned, a dumbfounded smile on her lips, to look at Quinn.

But Quinn was gone.

She spun around, glancing behind the swing and across the yard, but he was nowhere to be seen. She peered around the side of the house, into the darkness of pine and old fence, and saw nothing. He was gone.

She shook her head, at a loss. How had he left so quickly, and so silently? How long had she been lost in her revelation about Joe?

She laughed to herself and turned toward the front door. It didn't matter, she thought, gathering up her bags. She had to go. She had to get to Joe.

Her parents gave her the keys to their car and watched her go. Confused, she knew, but she couldn't explain the sudden, imperative mission she felt.

This was it, she knew with a certainty she'd never felt before in her life. This was a fate she wanted, and to get it she had to grab it with both hands.

She drove into town, every nerve trembling, the words she might say to him alternately flitting into and out of her head. She just needed to get to him, she thought determinedly, focusing on the one task, the one surety, the one desire. Then she'd figure out what to say.

She pulled up in front of the garage and stared at the darkened building. Spotlights on the garage doors lit the bouyant red bows on the wreaths, but no lights shone from the windows and no tire marks marred the white tundra in front of the building. Where had he gone? With a sinking heart she got out of the car and walked slowly to the front door. She pulled on it; it was locked. She knocked, half-heartedly, and received no answer. She turned and rested her back against it.

Her gaze traveled the square. The lights strung along wires encircling the skating rink were lit, and a bunch of kids chased each other around the slick surface. Someone blew into the microphone of the antiquated public-address system and a fuzzy blizzard of sound erupted. The kids laughed.

''Testing, testing," an adolescent voice said. Then, after one of the kids slipped and fell, the voice added, "Testing . . . and you fail, Ronnie."

The kids cackled again and the one who fell was pulled, giggling wildly, along the ice.

Susannah sighed, feeling the cold seep through her coat. She folded her arms across her chest and rubbed her shoulders. Maybe he'd gone to someone's house. Maybe he'd gone out. Maybe the incident had meant so little to him he'd met his friends at a bar. Her eyes flicked to Sullivan's with its red neon Budweiser sign in the window.

She imagined herself walking into the dim, smoky room, her boots sounding hollow on the wood-planked floor. Large, potbellied men around a pool table would glance up at her, and Joe would be sitting on a bar stool next to a leggy blonde smoking a cigarette.

She couldn't go in there.

She started to walk back to the carthinking about how the dark, silent drive home would compare to the singing elation she'd felt coming into townand decided that yes, in fact she could go in there. And she could sit down next to Joe Cameron, order herself a beer, and tell him just what she thought. Of course she couldn't do that if the leggy blonde were there, but she was just a dramatic prop of Susannah's imagination anyway. Hopefully.

With newfound resolve, Susannah stalked past the car and started toward the square. Past the skating rink and halfway to the bar she saw someone out of the corner of her eye emerge from the trees beyond the gazebo.

Joe! Recognition hit the pit of her stomach before it registered in her brain. She stopped in her tracks and watched him approach.

At that moment, through the old PA system came the sound of music. I'll . . . be home . . . for Christmas. . . .

Joe's long legs ate the distance between them in no time even though he did not move hurriedly. His hands were jammed in his pockets, his head was lowered.

You . . . can count . . . on me. . . .

An overwhelming desire to flee before he saw her sprang into her mind. He didn't want to see her; she had just embarrassed both of them to death not an hour ago. And what in the world was she going to say to him? How on earth could she actually voice the feelings bursting from her heart so uncontrollably?

But even as the flood of insecurities washed over her, he lifted his head, his clear eyes found hers, and he smileda surprised, but somehow intimate smile. Her heart fluttered.

"Probably surprised to see me again so soon," she said, when he stopped a few feet in front of her. "Yes," he said, sounding as though he really meant it. Their eyes met and held for a long moment before his broke away and he glanced at his feet.

She watched the play of light along the side of his face. His lashes made two tender arcs against his cheekbones.

She wanted to tell him how glad she was to have found him, how relieved she felt to see him, how sorry she was he'd left as he had before. But the words jammed in her chest, held down by the overwhelming fear that she'd say too much and then he might push her away.

"Taking a walk?" he asked.

She shook her head, then swallowed hard. "No."

I was looking for you, her mind said urgently, to tell you I need you, to ask you to be patient and to tell you I'm falling in love.

"Listen, Susannah," he said slowly, "I drove around some, after leaving your place. I drove past my parents', drove past my house, drove halfway to Camden, and all I could think about was you." He looked up at her, his face open, his eyes full of emotion. For her, she realized incredulously.

"Really?" Her voice emerged in a squeak.

He laughed and pushed his hands farther into his pockets, his shoulders hunching upward. "Really."

"I" Words piled up in her throat, but she forced them out anyway, made herself go for the gold. "I was thinking about you, too. Iwas thinking, I'm sorry. . . .

He smiled, laughed wryly, and looked down again, shaking his head.

"No," she insisted, "not about what happened. Not the kiss, that is. I mean I'm sorry I was such a mess. I'm sorry I sent you off like that."

"You don't have to be sorry"

"You don't understand. I'm not sorry for you, you know, in the polite way. I'm sorry for me. I wish I hadn't done it. I wishthat is, I feel" She exhaled swiftly in frustration at her own inadequate words and looked up at him helplessly. "Joe, would you kiss me again, please?"

His eyes jerked to hers, surprised. "What?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm crazy about you. Maybe I always have been. But after today I was sure. I know I seem like a miserable human beingI've just been so confused lately. But since I've been with you things seem clearer. And I don't want to give up on this just because of some foolish ideas we may have about how or who we were in high school. Don't ask me why, but I think you and I are perfect for each other."

Susannah stopped talking and stared at him, simultaneously appalled and relieved at her own words. A strange, anticipatory silence hung in the aftermath of her speech.

"So . . ." He shifted his feet and glanced up at her through dark lashes, a tentative smile on his lips. "You like me, huh?"

She laughed. "Yeah. I like you."

Then, before she could think another sobering thought, before she could second-guess herself or figure out why it would be a stupid move, she stepped forward and put her arms around his neck.

Without hesitation, his arms encircled her and Susannah felt her soul sigh with contentment as their lips came together.

Chapter Seven

The world was suddenly a glorious place, Susannah marveled. She awoke the next morning, and every morning that week, with nothing but hope and happiness for the new day. She made a point of not thinking about New York, or her job, or what would happen after Christmas, but took each moment she had and made the most of it. Of course, it helped that many of those moments she spent with Joe.

The amazing thing was, the better she felt the better everyone else around her seemed to feel. Her mother hadn't said anything about Joe or the Camerons, her father had shown no signs of forgetfulness or of having lost touch with reality, and even her sister's kids seemed better behaved.

Days spent with Joe ice-skating, or cross-country skiing, or Christmas shopping, flew by in a blissful haze, imbuing even Crossport and the time she spent with her family with a contentment she'd never known before.

The day before Christmas, Susannah went shopping with Caroline. Neither of them had many gifts to buy, so they decided to hit the small shops in town and have lunch.

All along Harbor Street the lampposts were hung with garlands and bows, and Susannah knew at night all the trees lining the street would glow with tiny white Christmas lights. Every store they entered played Christmas music, and nearly every corner sported a bell-ringing Santa or a bundled-up vendor selling hot drinks and roasted chestnuts.

"Mom tells me you've seen Joe Cameron a lot since you got back," her sister said as they jingled into a tiny candle shop with bells on the door. The smell of wax and cinnamon potpourri smothered them in the sudden warmth of the shop.

Susannah found a vanilla candle suddenly enthralling. "Oh, you know, he's working on my car and all. . . ." She pressed the candle to her nose and closed her eyes.

"And what," her sister said, laughing, "you're helping?"

Susannah laughed. "Of course not. There's just a certain amount of contact that goes along with a project like that."

"I've never had that kind of contact with my mechanic," Caroline said, ignoring the abundance of merchandise around her and studying her sister. "Come to think of it, Joe is my mechanic."

Susannah moved down the aisle to examine a painted terra-cotta flower pot. "Mom would like this, don't you think? She still gardens, doesn't she?"

"Come on, Sue,'fess up," Caroline said. "You and Joe Cameron are dating, aren't you?"

"Shhh." Her face aflame, Susannah glanced over her shoulder at the shop's proprietress. Fortunately, Mrs. Getty was waiting on a customer. "Don't you think there's enough gossip in this town already?" she scolded.

Caroline rested a hip on the counter beside her and folded her arms. "Absolutely. That's why I want to know the truth. Speculation is always more dangerous than the truth. Don't you think?"

Susannah put down the flower pot and gave her sister a sour look. "All right, if you must know, we've gone out on a few dates."

Caroline smiled. "And do you like him?"

"Caroline!"

"Ooh, you're blushing." She cackled with delight.

Susannah rolled her eyes. "This is starting to feel like junior high school."

"I know!" Caroline laughed and picked up a set of salad utensils with lettuce heads on the handles. "Are you afraid I'm going to pass him a note in class and tell him?"

"Frankly, yes." Susannah turned toward the door. "It's hot in here, isn't it?"

"I'll bet." Caroline smirked.

Susannah started toward the door. "Let's eat. I don't need to buy anything else, do you?"

"When are you going to see him again? Is he coming over tonight?" Caroline asked as they exited into the frosty air. "Christmas Eve is very romantic. You know Mom's cooking that ham and was hoping we could do some caroling."

"I know," Susannah said, "but I don't think he'll be by tonight." The truth was she wasn't sure when she was going to see him next and the thought made her distinctly uncomfortable. They'd been having a wonderful time togethershe thought, anywaybut he'd been strangely closemouthed about his plans for Christmas. Assuming he had family plans, Susannah hadn't brought it up much for fear of looking overexpectant.

"What about tomorrow?" Caroline pushed.

"I don't know that either."

"Well, all right," Caroline said, exasperated, "when's your car going to be finished? Do you know that?"

Susannah shook her head. In all the time they'd spent together she hadn't brought up the car, and neither had Joe. She knew why she hadn'tbecause thinking about it only reminded her that she was to leave soonbut she wondered why he hadn't said anything.

Susannah eventually managed to get her sister off the subject of Joe, but her own mind was another matter. She thought about him incessantly. As if it were an adolescent crush, she chided herself. But try as she might, she could not get her imaginings off the subject of Joe Cameron for more than a few minutes at a time. She was driving herself crazy with it.

If she wasn't dreaming about pitching her whole New York life and staying in that apartment over the old firehouse with him, she was imagining him showing up at her place in Manhattan to spirit her off to some unknown place to spend the rest of their days together. She was obsessed, she knew, but couldn't help herself. She simply couldn't imagine her life without him.

Susannah was peeling potatoes in the kitchen that night, with her mother rolling balls of dough for the buns and her father trying to entertain Caroline's boys without sending them into an uncontrollable frenzy of excitement, when her sister suddenly turned the music off. With Bing Crosby unceremoniously silenced, everyone paused.

"Shh, listen!" Caroline said to their curious faces. "Do you hear that?"

"'Do you hear what I hear?'" one of the boys sang.

"Shhh!" Caroline commanded.

One by one, their faces showed comprehension as the sound of voices drifted through the walls to them.

"Carolers!" Caroline exclaimed.

The boys jumped up from their board game on the floor, followed by her father, whose ascent was somewhat slower but no less excited. Her mother moved to the sink to rinse her hands and nudged Susannah with an elbow.

"Come on, let's go listen. We've got time before we need to put these things in."

Susannah dried her hands and followed her mother toward the door.

"Hey, Susannah!" Caroline called as Susannah crossed the family room. "Come quick. There's something you should see out here!"

Butterflies blossomed in Susannah's stomach. There was only one thing that could put that self-satisfied note in her sister's voice.

She approached the door slowly, rubbing her hands with the towel she still held despite the fact that they were already quite dry. Emerging onto the porch, the first thing she saw was her car parked in the driveway, freshly clean and shining in the glow of the house lights, with an enormous red ribbon from bumper to bumper and a great red bow on top.

From there her eyes jumped to the small group of carolers standing on the drive, a few neighbors and townspeople, with Joe standing tall in the center, all of them singing "Hark! the Herald Angels Sing."

She felt her lips curl upward at the same time a ridiculous urge to cry overtook her. She felt her sister's eyes upon her and swallowed hard, mastering the expression on her face.

The song ended and everyone erupted into laughter and applause.

"Susannah Murphy!" Joe called, an electrifying smile on his face.

Caroline grabbed her elbow and pushed her forward onto the walkway.

"I've got something for you," he said, "but you've got to come here to get it."

"I can see it," Susannah said, laughing and indicating the car, but she moved toward him anyway.

With great tact, her mother invited the rest of the carolers inside for hot chocolate, and they passed Susannah with delighted, knowing smiles as she went to Joe.

He leaned against the hood of her car with his hands in his coat pockets and she relished his handsomeness. Even wrapped up in a hat and scarf and coat and gloves, he was the best-looking man she'd seen in a long time. And that look of pleasure on his face, she marveled, was for her.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, a truly mischievous smile on his face, "but I've got a gift for you."

"Mind?" She laughed. "Who ever minds a gift?" He gave her a rueful look. ''Well, this one's a little self-serving."

Once upon a time she might have said something about how all gifts were self-serving, but she didn't feel that way now. In fact, at this moment she wished she could give Joe the world, and she honestly wouldn't care if she got nothing in return.

She smiled. "I doubt that. You're the least self-serving person I've ever met."

He grinned and raised a brow, not relinquishing her gaze as he walked around to the back door of the car. "Don't be so sure. Are you ready?"

She laughed and threw out her hands in surrender. "Fire away."

He opened the door, and out bounded a gangly puppy with huge feet and a wide mouth she would swear was laughing.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, dropping to her knees as the pup careened over to her. Tail whipping and tongue slathering her hands, the pup jumped onto her lap and began nipping at her sweater.

"Do you like him?" Joe asked, watching in delighted expectation.

Susannah laughed and cuddled the furry, wiggling body to her chest. "He's wonderful," she said, letting the pup lick her face, no doubt tasting the salt of the few emotional tears Susannah could no longer quell. "But Joe, I can't have a dog in my apartment." She looked up at him quickly, worried she'd hurt his feelings.

But the mischievous smile he'd worn when he'd opened the back door was nothing compared to the one he wore now. "That's where the self-serving part comes in. I thought I'd keep him for you, for a while anyway, and you'd come visit him. . . ." He paused and tilted his head. "A lot."

At that Susannah couldn't stop the tears of joy that spilled over. Burying her face in the dog's fur, she let herself feel all the hope for the future she'd been trying to ignore in the past days for fear of disappointment.

Joe took a step toward her and bent to take her hand. The puppy rolled out of Susannah's arms to wallow around in the snow at their feet.

"Susannah," Joe said as she rose. He pulled her into his arms and rubbed her back to warm her. "I'm in love with you."

Susannah caught her breath.

His eyes smiled down at her. "But you're going to have to do something for me," he continued, gently moving a strand of hair from her forehead with a gloved finger and gazing into her upturned eyes. "You're going to have to start believing life can be wonderful, because I'm planning on it. I'm planning on it with you."

Susannah laughed and buried her face in his shoulder. "Oh, Joe," she said, not knowing what else to say. Her heart seemed to actually swell with joy and love. She wanted it all, everything he wanted and more. And the fact that it suddenly seemed she could have it if she wanted it was overwhelming. "I think I've got a favorite Christmas memory to tell now."

She heard his laughter through his coat. "Hopefully just the first of many."

"And I'll come visit the puppy every chance I get. And I'll believe that life can be wonderful because you've made it that way for me, Joe. You've shown me that if you believe life is good, it is good. That's the best Christmas gift I've ever gotten."

He tipped her head back with a hand so he could look in her face. "I didn't do anything, Susannah. You did that all yourself."

"You see?" she insisted, laughing. "You see what a wonderful person you are? You can't even take credit where credit is due!"

He grinned. "All I did was fall in love with you. And I believe that was your fault."

She smiled and put her arms around his neck. "I love you, Joe Cameron."

"And that's the best Christmas gift I've ever gotten."

He kissed her then, soundly, and Susannah felt her heart glide with happiness.

When the kiss broke, she closed her eyes and pulled him near, reveling in the feel of his arms around her. Never had she felt so safe or so happy.

Then, over Joe's shoulder, she caught sight of a bright red parka. At the edge of the trees, Quinn walked through the snow up the road to Camden. She started to call out when he turned, put a finger to his lips, and waved.

She waved back just as a snowflake landed on her cheek.

"Hey, it's snowing," Joe said and picked her up to spin her around in his arms.

Susannah laughed and stuck out her tongue as fat, cartoonlike flakes drifted from the sky.

When she landed back on her feet, happier than she'd ever thought she could be, Quinn had disappeared into the darkness. A brisk wind whistled through the bare tree limbs and Susanna smiled to herself as she noted there were no footprints where he had walked.

BLUE CHRISTMAS

LINDA WINSTEAD To the Winsteads and the Joneses
for perfectand imperfectChristmases past,
present, and future

Chapter One

Jess tried to concentrate on the 1998 calendar on her desk and the appointments she'd jotted so neatly there for January, but she couldn't. Her mind wandered, and her eyes drifted from the calendar to the door. The noise in the main office, just outside that closed door, was more than distracting. It was maddening.

Dean was doing his Elvis impersonation to encouraging hoots and hollers. It was a Christmas Eve tradition Jess had reluctantly become accustomed to, Dean's rendition of "Blue Christmas," sung very badly but with a great deal of enthusiasm. With a sigh she pushed her swivel chair back, resigned to the fact that she wasn't going to get any more work done tonight. This was a sight she didn't want to miss. After all, it only came once a year.

She opened her office door to a Christmas party in full swing. Sure enough, Dean had donned his Elvis wig and white jumpsuitthe one with red and green spangles, bell bottoms, and fringed sleevesand he was standing on Lorraine's desk and performing for the crowd. Dark sunglasses hid his beady eyes, and he occasionally caressed the long scarf that hung around his neck in a way that was unmistakably sensual.

It was great. Dean had his act down, complete with rotating pelvis and seductive sneer directed toward the females in the audience. If only he could carry a tune.

The crowd was receptive. Even Terry Bartlett, Vandiver Records' no-nonsense accountant, grinned as he watched the show. Jess shook her head in wonder. She'd have thought that people who worked for a recording company would be more discriminating.

All eyes were on Dean, including hers, so she didn't know Jimmy Blue was making his way toward her until it was too late to retreat into her office without looking like a complete fool. His eyes locked on hers, he smiled, and with a few fluid strides of those long legs, he was beside her.

Compared to the festive apparel worn by every other female in the room, her perfectly tailored gray suit was drab, downright dowdy, and Jess was suddenly all too aware of that fact.

"I thought maybe you were going to spend Christmas in your office," Jimmy said with a smile, and Jess knew he'd been watching for her. Watching and waiting. He held two cups of putrid-green punch in his hands, and handed Jess one as he reached her.

He looked particularly gorgeous, but then he always did. It was the thick dark hair, short but not so short that an errant strand didn't brush his forehead now and again. It was the smoky gray eyes set in a face that was handsome without bring pretty. Gorgeous as he was, Jimmy had a man's face, angular and sharp, tough and tanned. His long, lean body was, as usual, encased in worn denim. Hell, even if he couldn't singand boy could he singhe was going to be a star.

Too bad.

"I couldn't possibly miss Dean's annual performance," she said coolly.

Jimmy studied Dean for a moment, and a pained expression came and went quickly. This was Jimmy's first Christmas with Vandiver Records, and watching his A&R man put on a bad Elvis impersonation was obviously a shock. "You know," he said in a low voice, "if I'd heard this before, I don't think I could've cut this song for the Christmas album."

The Christmas album had been Dean's idea, and "Blue Christmas" was the title track. It was one of Dean's favorite songs, and it seemed a perfect play on the rising star's name.

The first time Jess had heard it, she'd known Jimmy's success with his first album was no fluke. Legs had been an instant success, and the title track had gotten great radio play, including a little crossover onto rock stations. The videowhich was nothing more than Jimmy, his Sunburst Stratocaster, his band, and a small collection of women with appropriately impressive appendageshad played for months, and still showed up on CMT now and again.

"Legs" was a good time: country sprinkled heavily with southern rock. It was hard-hitting, a little raunchy, and it had spawned a short-lived dance that had shown up in clubs all across the country.

Legs had put Jimmy on the map, but Blue Christ- mas was quickly making him a star. Jimmy Blue didn't only look good in a tight pair of jeans; he could sing. His voice was natural, never forced or harsh. After the success of the slow and easy version of "Blue Christmas," Dean was already talking ballads for Jimmy's next album.

"I tell you what." Jimmy leaned just a bit closer and lowered his voice. "How 'bout we leave Dean in Nashville and you come to L.A. with me next week."

In a room full of peoplesecretaries, executives, and musiciansit suddenly seemed as if she and Jimmy were all alone. They weren't in the middle of things, here against the wall, but it wasn't distance that separated them from the crowd. It was Jimmy Blue's voice, and the way he shifted his body so that all Jess saw was him.

She hated the way he did this to her, made her feel like a lovestruck teenager who allowed her hormones to rule her head and her heart. Her stomach knotted, her knees all but wobbled, and she could swear her heartbeat sped up considerably.

"No, thanks," she said calmly. "I'm sure Dean has big plans for you in Hollywood."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Jimmy whispered.

It was just a cameo in a Western comedy Jimmy had recorded a song for that was taking him to Hollywood, but Dean was sure this was another step in making Jimmy Blue a big star.

"Do you know what he's bought me now?" Jimmy all but moaned. "A frock coat and a red silk vest. I swear, he's trying to make me look like a riverboat gambler."

"So?" Jess refused to let her anxiety show. She could be tough when she had to. ''You refused to wear the leather pants and the sequined jacket, and the beaded shirt and ten-gallon hat, and that other"she waved her free hand as she searched for a proper description of the bizarre Southwest outfit Dean had recently tried to force upon Jimmy"thing. Just tell him thanks but no thanks."

No matter how Dean tried to reshape Jimmy Blue, he failed. Jimmy said, sang, and wore what he wanted. His wardrobe reflected his pre-show biz life in Texas, and that meant jeans and cowboy boots, a very plain black cowboy hat, and simple shirtsT-shirts or button-down collars without adornment of any kind. Jimmy was every woman's all-American dream, but Dean wasn't quite satisfied.

"I already did, but I hurt his feelings."

"Dean doesn't have any feelings," Jess confided in a hoarse whisper.

Dean launched into a new number, "Jailhouse Rock," and Lorraine, who was normally an efficient and sensible employee, provided the obligatory swooning-female scream.

Jimmy closed one eye and grimaced. It wasn't Lorraine's scream that distressed him, Jess knew; it was the fact that Dean was horrendously off-key.

"I can't take it," Jimmy said softly, and with a gentle and strong hand he propelled Jess into her office. She took a single step backward, almost stumbled, and then Jimmy closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

Jess recovered her balance and her composure, and slipped around the desk to take her chair. That simple move placed the desk between her and Jimmyjust as she'd planned.

"Better," he said as he stepped up to her desk. He placed his punch cup at the corner, next to hers, and sat casually on the edge, twisting his body so he could look down at her. "I have a favor to ask you, and I couldn't do it while that was going on."

She could still hear Dean, but beyond the closed door his voice was muffled and distant.

"A favor?" she asked when Jimmy hesitated.

"Dean said you're not going home for Christmas."

"No." Thank goodness. Finally, a Christmas without a disaster. No family feud, no burned turkey, no annual holiday crisis. Well, all those family traditions would be present in the Lennox household; Jess just wouldn't be there to participate. "I've got lots of work to pick up on right after the holidays, so it didn't make much sense to try to make the trip to Florida."

Jimmy leaned toward her slightly. "So what are you going to do?"

Jess smiled, a true and easy smile. "I'm going to eat Twinkies and canned soup, wear my pajamas all day, and watch television. You know, It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, 'The Grinch.'"

"So you don't have any plans."

"Those are my plans."

He nodded his head as if he understood, but he didn't. She was sure of that.

"I have kind of a problem, and you could really help me out, Jess." He was using that down-home, good-ol'-boy, aw-shucks, honeyed voice he reserved for moments when he really wanted something. She'd been caught in this trap once before. "Get this over with, Blue, and tell me what you want."

Jimmy smiled at her. God, he had a killer smile. "My whole family's flying in tomorrow for Christmas. My folks, my sister, and five brothers. They haven't seen the new place yet, and it seemed like a good time for them to make the trip."

Jess waited patiently for Jimmy to get to the point.

"My mother, she's been worried since I got here that I might fall in with the wrong crowd, and"

"Blue," Jess interrupted. "You're thirty-one years old, and your mother is worried that you might fall in with the wrong crowd?"

He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "You know how it is."

She didn't, actually, but she didn't say so. Her own mother had openly rejoiced as each Lennox childall three of themleft the nest.

"She kept asking me about the dancers in the "Legs" video, wanting to know if they were sweet girls from good families and if any of them were married. I told her I don't know how many times that I didn't know those girls at all, but she wouldn't let up. Every week she wanted to know if I had a girlfriend, if I'd met any nice girls. . . ."

"Your mother takes quite an interest in your love life," Jess said dryly.

Jimmy raised his eyebrows slightly and leaned closer. "She wants me to get married. She wants grandchildren."

"Why is she picking on you, Blue? You have five brothers and a sister."

"All younger, and not a one of them married. Luke and Ginny are still in high school, John and Robbie are in college, and Frank and Will are working the ranch with Dad. As the oldest, I get harassed."

He looked genuinely distressed.

"I hate to ask where I come in."

"I told my mother that I had a girlfriend, a really sweet girl I met at the studio." Jimmy smiled. "She wants to meet her."

Jess couldn't squelch the sudden horror that rose within her at the very idea of facing Jimmy's large family, but she hid it well, she thought. It didn't make a bit of sense to avoid her own dysfunctional family, only to get caught up with someone else's. "No way, Blue, am I giving up my Twinkies and Miracle on 34th Street to pretend to be your girlfriend so your mother will get off your back."

He glanced down at her calendar, and ran his fingers over the scribbled appointments there. "If you'd ever agree to go out with me again maybe you wouldn't have to pretend."

"I don't date"

"Musicians," he finished for her. "I know, I know. This is a familiar tune, Jess. I don't get it. We went out once, and I had a good time."

"That wasn't a date; it was just two friends going out for dinner and a movie."

Jimmy had still been new in town, and he'd hit her with that deceptive aw-shucks voice, and to be honest, she liked him. What was there not to like? He was sweet and funny and talented and gorgeous, so she'd broken her rule just that once. She'd had no idea how popular he would become almost overnight. The odds of that kind of success were slim, as anyone who tried to break into this business knew. Just her luck . . .

"Look, Blue, there are probably a thousand girls in the Nashville area who would be thrilled to pose as your girlfriend for a day. A dozen of them are in the outer office right now, listening to Dean butcher the King's memory." A thousand girls, maybe more. And that was the problem.

"Well, you see, that won't work."

"Why not?"

"My mother loves details. Facts. You can't be vague with her. So I told her that my girlfriend's name is Jess, and that she has curly dark blond hair and green eyes." He reached out and slipped a finger under her chin and forced her face up. "I told her this Jess is twenty-six years old, comes from Pensacola, Florida, and works in A&R right here at Vandiver Records."

"Why didn't you just send her a picture?" Jess snapped.

At least he had the good manners to look sheepish. "I did. You remember that party they threw when the Christmas album was released? The picture Dean took of us standing by the cover artwork? He said 'Smile,' I threw my arm around your shoulder. . . . It's a really good picture."

"Jimmy!"

"I also told her that this was the woman I wrote "Legs" for, my very first night in Nashville."

Why did her heart skip a beat? "Liar."

He shook his head slowly. "Nope. That's the truth. Dean brought me in here to show me around and introduce me to everybody. Hell, I wasn't even sure I was going to stay in Nashville. And there you were, leaning up against Lorraine's desk. Your skirt had hiked up, just a little . . ."

Her face grew warm, and Jess knew she was blushing beet red.

" . . . and I said'Damm, those are the finest legs I've ever seen.' Dean advised me to keep my opinion to myself, said you wouldn't appreciate the compliment, and I took his advice. I sure as hell didn't want to scare you off my first day in Nashville, so I kept my mouth shut. But when I got back to the hotel I wrote "Legs" on hotel stationery."

Jess was tempted to look down. Her legs were okay, but she'd never thought of them as great, and she'd surely never thought them inspirational.

"But you're telling me now," she said, and her voice was amazingly calm.

Jimmy shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I've asked you a hundred times to go out with me, and except for that first time, which you claim wasn't even a date, you turn me down flat. You won't go out with me, it looks like you won't even pretend to be my girlfriend for one day, so what have I got to lose by coming clean now?"

Dean had launched a new number"Blue Suede Shoes"and Jess decided then and there that whoever had invented karaoke should be shot. Jimmy was leaning over her desk, waiting expectantly for some kind of answer. Beyond the door the party was in full swing.

"I don't date"

"Musicians," Jimmy finished dully. "One of these days you're going to say that and I'm going to believe you."

She wanted him to believe her. More than that, she wanted him to stop looking at her this way. Expectantly, intimately.

Lorraine threw the door open, knocking as she swung the door in. "Hey, you two, you're missing all the fun."

Lorraine evidently wasn't surprised to see Jimmy perched on Jess's desk. Of course, observant friend and wannabe matchmaker that she was, she'd probably seen them slip into the office and close the door.

Vandiver Records' office manager was wearing a Santa hat and dangly reindeer earrings. Her sweater was red and green with just a touch of sparkling gold. Five foot nothing with a shock of red hair and weighing in at maybe a hundred pounds, she looked remarkably like a Christmas elf.

"Business," Jess said sharply. Lorraine wasn't put off by the biting tone of voice. She knew Jess too well.

"On Christmas Eve?" Lorraine moaned. "Shame on you both. Now, get out here and have fun."

Jimmy smiled. "Sounds like an order to me."

Lorraine turned her back, and Jimmy started to follow. When he reached the door he turned to Jess. "So, what about tomorrow?"

"No way." Jess stepped around the desk, but stopped well short of Jimmy.

"Think about it," he said. "You know where the house is, don't you?"

"Yeah, there was that barbecue in October."

"You didn't come."

"I think I still have the map somewhere." It was in her glove compartment, to be exact, under an ice scraper and a half-empty bottle of Tums. "But I won't need it."

Jimmy left her office and she was close behind. Dean was, thankfully, silent. He had left his "stage" and was milling about in full Elvis regalia, bestowing grand Elvis-like thank-yous to his admirers. The crowd had spread out, and it looked as if a few had left to head home to their families.

Jess stopped in the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb. Everyone was happy. Beyond happy, they were jubilant. True, it had been a wonderful year for Vandiver Recordsthanks in large part to Jimmy Bluebut this was ridiculous. It was just another day, and tomorrow would be just another day, and after the first of the year they'd be busting their butts to make up for the time they'd wasted.

She tried not to begrudge them their obvious joy. They'd never spent Christmas with her family, so maybe their holiday memories were not as traumatic as hers. A yearly crisis was required in the Lennox household. Peter's divorce one year. Another year, Uncle Emmitt showing up on Christmas Eve in full Santa costume rip-roaring drunk, his wife, Aunt Debra, moving in the next morning. Sometimes the crisis was small. The turkey wouldn't defrost or else was cooked to a huge blob of charcoal, or the cakes fell, or the pies exploded. It didn't take much to send her mother running from the room in tears.

Every year as she kissed her mother and said good-bye, Jess swore that Christmas at home was her last. Last year, she'd meant it.

Lorraine poked playfully at Jimmy's chest, and then Dean spun him around so he was facing Jess again. It was quite a picture, Jimmy Blue effectively trapped between the King and a redheaded elf.

Lorraine pointed a wicked red fingernail to a place above Jess's head, and Jimmy smiled.

Knowing what she would see, Jess tilted her head back slowly.

Mistletoe.

Chapter Two

It took a gentle shove from Dean/Elvis to get Jimmy moving forward. Jess waited, mortified to find herself the center of attention, terrified at the realization that in a matter of seconds Jimmy would be expectantly before her. She didn't move.

"Tradition," Jimmy said in a low voice as he reached the doorway. His eyes flickered briefly to the mistletoe above Jess's head, and then he lowered his lips to hers.

Jimmy's arms stayed at his sides, and so did hers. The kiss, when it came, was soft and easy, the kind of kiss friends might share. But his lips lingered just a little bit too long, learning the curve of her mouth, tasting and testing, and there was nothing friendly in the tongue that briefly teased her lower lip.

This was not fair.

"I could give up music," Jimmy said as he pulled his mouth reluctantly from hers.

Jess couldn't answer him immediately. Her heart was pounding, her knees were weak, and every primitive instinct within her demanded that she reach out, grab Jimmy by the front of his denim shirt, and kiss him again. Hard, this time.

She didn't, of course. Before she could come up with a sufficiently flippant answer, Jimmy reached above her head and snatched the mistletoe from the door frame. ''You'd better put this somewhere safe, before the boys start to line up for their Christmas kiss. I might be a patient man, honey, but that's one sight I couldn't take."

He sounded almost jealous.

"Tomorrow?" he whispered as he placed the mistletoe in her hand.

She shook her head slightly. "No way, Blue." Her voice wasn't as strong as she would have liked, but it didn't tremble, either. It was a wonder.

"Merry Christmas, Jess." Jimmy spun on his boot heel and walked away. With a soft smile on his face he wished each and every person he passed a merry Christmas. Everybody liked Jimmy, male and female, old and young. He was one of those people who appealed to everyone. And why not? He was attractive, friendly, talented, and beneath it all he was a truly nice guy.

He shook hands and kissed uplifted cheeks as he made his way to the door, and when he reached it he snatched his black cowboy hat from the nearly full hat rack and placed it on his head. A heavy denim jacket hung nearby, on a peg by the hat rack, and as he slipped it on he turned to face her.

That was when Jess realized that she hadn't moved since Jimmy had kissed her.

As he left, she stepped back into her office. Retreating like a coward, denying everything she felt. Before she could close the door, Lorraine was there. "Was it wonderful?" she asked as she closed the door behind her. Jess did her best to glare at Lorraine. Facing that wide grin and holiday getup, it was difficult.

"You ambushed me," Jess accused as she took her purse from the bottom desk drawer and slapped it on the desk.

Lorraine's smile faded, but not much. "I don't get it, girl. If Jimmy Blue had the hots for me, I sure wouldn't be running as fast as I could in the other direction."

Jess gave her friend a warm smile. "Now, what would Felix say if he heard you say that?"

"Okay," Lorraine conceded. "If I wasn't married, and Jimmy Blue had the hots for me . . ."

"Good night, Lorraine." Jess grabbed her coat from the coatrack at the corner by the window, and slipped it on. Three floors below, in the parking lot, Jimmy was making his way to his pickup truck. His shoulders were hunched and his head was down, against the cold wind and rain that would probably turn to sleet and maybe even snow before the night was over.

Lorraine was right on the money. He had the hots for Jess, probably because she was the only woman in Nashville who didn't offer to have his children when he smiled at her. Physical attraction, a chemical reaction, and that was it.

True, he was a nice guy, but nice guys didn't make it in this business, and Jimmy Blue was here to stay. Something had to give, and she'd seen it happen to "nice guys" before.

She wasn't going to fall into that trap again.

"What's it like out there?" Lorraine asked.

Jess glanced over her shoulder. "Cold and wet. I'm going to head for home before it gets any worse."

Home, for a pleasant, quiet, crisis-free holiday.

When she reached for her purse she realized she still had the mistletoe Jimmy had placed in her hand. Without another thought, she slipped it into her coat pocket.

She liked the people she worked with at Vandiver Records. They were, for the most part, hardworking and friendly. There were get-togethers for most every holiday, wedding and baby showers, and summer picnics. It was like having a second, albeit more normal, family than her own.

Much as Jimmy had just a few minutes earlier, Jess exchanged holiday greetings, friendly kisses, and hugs on her way to the door.

The hallway was deserted, but for the stuffed reindeers and plastic Santa that hung from the walls. Lorraine, a self-proclaimed Christmas nut, had spent half a day decorating not only the main office, but the hallway and Dean's office as well.

Jess had the elevator to herself, and she tried to think of the wonderfully relaxing holiday she had planned for herself. Twinkies and tomato soup, but not at the same time. Old movies and a quilt and her flannel pajamas. A pot of mocha coffee.

Perfection.

The sparsely furnished lobby was cold and deserted, and Jess gathered the lapels of her coat together as she burst through the front doors and into a cold night. The rain was already beginning to freeze, and it pelted her face as she ran to her car. It was a nasty night, bitter and mean, and it made the promise of home all the more inviting. Her apartment was a mere fifteen minutes from the office, on a good day, but she imagined it would take her twice that long to get home tonight. Traffic was light, but the freezing rain slowed everyone down.

She caught the first red light, naturally. The car wasn't even warm yet, and she shivered as she waited. With a gloved hand, she flicked on the radio, and Christmas music poured softly from the speakers. That was all she was likely to find for tonight. She loved the appropriate song that was playing, "Baby, It's Cold Outside," and she especially loved this version. It was hauntingly romantic. Without wanting to, she thought of Jimmy.

The light turned green, and she took off at a near crawl. "Baby, It's Cold Outside" concluded and the next song, which came on without a break or introduction of any kind, was Jimmy's "Blue Christmas."

She thought about turning the radio off, but kept both hands on the steering wheel. This was, after all, a beautiful song, beautifully sung. Jimmy had left his Stratocaster at home for this recording, and strummed slowly on an old beat-up Martin he'd brought to the studio with him.

That classic guitar had seen better days, cosmetically, but the notes Jimmy pulled from it were warm and comforting, just like the voice that accompanied it.

What woman could listen to that voice and not melt? The simple way this song had been recorded, just Jimmy and the guitar, gave it an intimate quality. She could almost imagine that Jimmy was right here in the car with her.

She glanced sharply at the radio as she listened to the words. "Yeah, right," she whispered. "You'll do just fine without me, Jimmy Blue."

She wasn't falling for a musician's smooth lines, not ever again. Once bitten, twice shy, isn't that what they say? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Another saying worth remembering.

It didn't take her as long as she'd thought to reach her apartment building. She ran from her car to the door, but she couldn't outrun the icy rain. It collected in her hair and on her coat, and in the warmth of the foyer she took a moment to knock some of it off.

She loved this old building, which was neither chic nor in the most upscale part of town. As her salary had risen, she'd shopped a few times for a new apartment. The alternatives she found were, for the most part, cold and impersonal and all the same. So here she was.

While she shook off the cold rain and sleet, Mrs. Courtney stepped off the elevator. Eleanor Courtney lived on the second floor, and had been there for thirty years or more. She was white haired and plump, nosy and outspoken, and if a tenant sneezed she was at their door a couple of hours later with homemade chicken soup and tea. In other words, she was grandmother to the entire building.

"I was afraid I wouldn't get to see you." Mrs. Courtney smiled widely as she threw her arms around a slightly wet Jess. "Merry Christmas, sweet pea. I left a plate of gingerbread cookies outside your door."

"Why, thank you."

"My nephew Marcus and his wife are on their way over to pick me up," Mrs. Courtney said, breathless in her excitement. "I'm spending the night in their guest room, and tomorrow we're preparing a huge Christmas feast for the entire family."

Jess almost said "I'm sorry," but she bit her tongue in time.

"What are your plans?" Mrs. Courtney glanced past Jess and out the glass doors, but the drive was empty.

"I'm going to have a quiet Christmas."

Mrs. Courtney's face fell. "You mean you're spending Christmas alone?"

Why did everyone make that sound so horrible?

"I'm looking forward to a quiet day, really I am." Mrs. Courtney obviously didn't believe a word of it. "And if I get lonely, I have been invited to a friend's house, so I can always hop in the car and head over that way." She wouldn't do any such thing, of course, but the idea seemed to cheer Mrs. Courtney considerably.

"You do that," Mrs. Courtney said with the shake of a red-gloved finger.

Marcus arrived before Mrs. Courtney could say more, and Jess took the elevator to the fifth floor.

As promised, a plate of gingerbread men artfully arranged on a red paper plate and wrapped in clear wrap awaited her just outside her door. Jess scooped the plate off the floor, finding that it was warm to the touch. The warmth and the spicy aroma were so special, so . . . Christmasy.

The coworkers who admired her clutter-free and super-organized office would never believe that this apartment was hers. Shelves were piled high with an eclectic collection of books and ceramic cats. Her furniture had been chosen with comfort in mind, an arrangement of mismatched overstuffed chairs and ottomansinstead of a couchdominating the living room. Colorful quilts were thrown over her two favorite chairs.

She placed the plate of cookies on the dining room table, there beside an eighteen-inch artificial tree sparsely decorated with miniature red glass balls. Beneath the tree were the wrapped gifts from her family and from Lorraine. Jess, disillusioned as she was, was enough of a traditionalist to save the packages for Christmas morning, even though she'd insisted that Lorraine open her gift, sufficiently eye-catching earrings, over a holiday lunch just yesterday.

That taken care of, she went directly to the single bedroom, dropped her coat and purse on the bed, and began stripping off her sensible gray suit as she walked to the chest of drawers for her flannel pajamas. So it wasn't even eight o'clock yet. Who cares? This was her special, quiet holiday, and she'd spend it any way she pleased.

She puttered around the apartment in her flannel pj's, warm and content, with only a hint of a memory of a kiss stealing in to disconcert her. She ate a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich and made a pot of herbal teano caffeine for her this late in the dayand settled into her most comfortable chair with a warm cup of tea and a gingerbread cookie.

There was nothing on television but Christmas specials. Not in the mood for a cartoon or a variety show, Jess channel-surfed until she finally found an old movie station that was showing It's a Wonderful Life. She snuggled under her quilt, sipped her tea, and put Jimmy Blue from her mind.

She'd seen this movie a hundred times or more, and if she really tried she could say the lines before Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed did. It was familiar and predictable, comfortingly so. The movie, like her planned holiday, was simple and safejust what she wanted.

She discarded the empty teacup on the end table at her elbow, and tucked her legs beneath her. This was wonderful, the perfect holiday. She was warm and content, and she definitely did not miss any of the usual Christmas headaches. Traveling, trying to calm her hysterical mother, playing referee between her father and Marty. Being alone was not so bad.

Frozen rain pattered against the windowpanes, the clock in the kitchen ticked, and in a few minutes Jess closed her eyes.

The last thing she thought of before she drifted off was that kiss beneath the mistletoe.

"Wake up, dear," a kindly voice urged.

Jess closed her eyes tighter. What was Mrs. Courtney doing in her apartment?

"Come on, now, it's not even nine o'clock."

Jess opened her eyes to find an old woman standing in front of her. It was Mrs. Courtney, but it was somehow not Mrs. Courtney. And Jess could see right through her.

Blinking rapidly, Jess sat taller. Something wasn't right. How had Mrs. Courtney gotten into this apartment? Her eyes cleared, and she looked up to seeinstead of her kind neighborDean in his Elvis costume. He was bending over her with a concerned expression on his face. As she watched, wide awake by this time, he shifted in a thick mist, faded and changed. The mist took form after form: Lorraine in her Santa hat and Christmas sweater, Peter as a child, her mother bearing a tray of burned chocolate-chip cookies, her father putting together a "some assembly may be required" dollhouse.

Santa Claus. Not just any old Santa, but Edmund Gwenn from Miracle on 34th Street.

She wasn't wide awake; she was sound asleep.

The shifting form became Mrs. Courtney again, and seemed to settle into that persona comfortably.

"Come on, we have lots of work to do tonight, and there's very little time."

Jess closed her eyes and sank deeper into her chair and the quilt. Why couldn't she just dream of sugarplums and elves and Jimmy Blue?

"I'm not going away," Mrs. Courtney said stridently.

With a sigh of surrender, Jess sat up straight and stared directly at the apparition before her. "What do you want?"

"First off, I'd like to know if you plan to spend every Christmas for the rest of your life hiding from the rest of the world."

"I'm not hiding," Jess insisted.

The figure before her shimmered. "Call it what you will. I'm here to give you a chance to change your ways before it's too late."

The warning in Mrs. Courtney's voice was clear.

"I'm perfectly happy."

"Are you, now?" Of course she was happy. She didn't have to prove that to some shape-shifting ghost.

"Listen very carefully," Mrs. Courtney said sternly. "Tonight you will be given a gift."

"Put it under the tree with the others." Jess yawned and pointed sleepily to the tabletop tree and the gifts that were arranged beneath it.

"Not that kind of a gift, Jess Lennox," Mrs. Courtney said sternly. "I'm talking about a very special gift. The gift of a lifetime.

"A chance to see what your future might be like."

"Cool," Jess said as she closed her eyes. What a weird dream.

Chapter Three

Jess woke slowly, dragged unwillingly from a deep sleep by distant, muffled laughter. Her body was slumped over and oddly contorted and her head was down and resting on folded hands.

''Wake up, dear," Mrs. Courtney said softly.

Mrs. Courtney? Jess lifted her head slowly. Her hands and her head had been resting on her desk, and she was sitting in her swivel chair.

It had all been a dreamJimmy asking her to his house for Christmas, the kiss beneath the mistletoe, Mrs. Courtney's gingerbread cookies. . . . Too bad. That kiss had been something else.

Was she coming down with something? The flu, maybe? She never fell asleep at her desk.

"That's right." The kindly voice interrupted her thoughts, and Jess lifted her head to see the phantom Mrs. Courtney sitting on top of the four-drawer file cabinet by the door. "Are you clearheaded enough to remember a few instructions?"

This was the dream.

On the other side of the door, Dean sang "Blue Christmas." Someone squealed.

Instructions? "We've come forward a mere three years, Jess, but much has changed."

Jess decided there must've been something besides flour and sugar and butter in Mrs. Courtney's gingerbread men, if they were giving her dreams like this. Everything looked and felt so real. The air was chilly, the office was just as it had always been . . . the only element that was out of place was the ghostlike white-haired lady who sat daintily atop the file cabinet.

"So," Mrs. Courtney continued, "keep your mouth shut, for the most part. You are here to observe, to study, to learn. Not to participate. Well"Mrs. Courtney pursed her lips and screwed up her fleshy nose''I suppose you must participate to a certain extent. And there are a few key points you should know, so you don't embarrass yourself."

The apparition twined the fingers of two pale hands together and rested her chin on the knuckles. "Vandiver Records has had a bad year. Jimmy's latest recording, Over the Edge, did not live up to expectations, and several of the people who are laughing and singing at this moment will be out of work after the first of the year."

The hands separated and fluttered as Mrs. Courtney floated gracefully from the file cabinet and landed softly on her feet in front of the desk. "And I suppose I should prepare you for Jimmy's wife."

Jess's head shot up. "Jimmy's wife?"

"Her name is Erica. Jimmy met her on a trip to Hollywood three years ago. You remember when he had a bit part in that Western? Well, he came home with a wife." There was disapproval in Mrs. Courtney's voice. "I . . ." Of course she couldn't remember. He wouldn't leave for several days yet, and how could she remember something that hadn't yet happened?

"Erica was a two-bit actress going nowhere, and she hooked onto Jimmy the minute she saw him." Mrs. Courtney harrumphed. "She's one of those women who's more interested in what she is than who she is. Jimmy was a catch."

How could he? Jess fumed silently. He'd just asked her to spend Christmas with him. He'd kissed her and then snatched the mistletoe from above her head as if he were a possessive lover. For months he'd pursued her, and then he'd turned around and married an actress?

Of course, she'd known something like this would happen if she made the mistake of falling in love with Jimmy Blue.

The apparition leaned forward, drifting through the air and even partway through the solid desk. "If you tell a man often enough that you're not interested, eventually he will believe you." There was more than a hint of admonition in that statement.

The door flew open, the movement accompanied by a light tapping. Lorraine stepped into the room. "How's that headache?"

Lorraine looked directly at Jess, through the shifting and misty figure on the desk, and obviously she didn't see the ghost. Mrs. Courtney smiled and waved to Jess as she faded away.

"Headache?" Jess's eyes dropped to Lorraine's distended belly. The petite office manager wore her usual festive attire, but the bright red material and gold sequins were draped over a very pregnant stomach. Jess's eyes grew wide as she stared.

"If you say one more word about how huge I am I'm going to scream," Lorraine said as she closed the door. "Headache or no headache."

Now Jess knew this was a dream. She pinched her arm, lightly, and nothing happened.

"I'm fine," Jess said. "No headache." Her head was fine, if she discounted the disorientation and the hallucinations. Yeah, she was just peachy.

"Good." Lorraine propped herself against the edge of the desk, there where Mrs. Courtney had been a moment ago. "Join the party and pretend to have fun, like the rest of us."

What could she do but play along?

"I have these appointments to go over." Jess glanced down at the calendar she'd apparently used as a pillow. January, 2001. There were a few appointments scribbled there. A very few.

"You can't hide in here every time Jimmy brings that Erica thing to the office," Lorraine said softly, and with the sympathy of a true friend.

"I'm not hiding," Jess said. Whether she was answering Mrs. Courtney's earlier comment or Lorraine's, she didn't know. It was all the same, anyway.

"Then come on." Lorraine rounded the desk and took Jess's hand to assist her from the chair. Snowmen dangled from her ears, brushing pudgy cheeks. Goodness, Lorraine really was huge.

"When are you due, again?" Jess asked as she came to her feet.

"I have seven more weeks to go," Lorraine said testily, "and you darn well know it. If I hear one more word about how big I am, about triplets, or how I'm going to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records for delivering a fully grown three-year-old, I'm going to cry."

Oddly enough, the tough-as-nails Lorraine looked as if she really might burst into tears at any moment. "Sorry," Jess said. "It's just"

"I know." Lorraine threw her arm around Jess's waist as they headed for the office door. "You turn into a real bear every time that Erica thing shows up. Who can blame you?"

Jess shook her head to clear it, and smoothed the short navy skirt she wore. Paired with a plain white blouse, it was her usual business attire, simple and classic. She didn't own a pair of holiday earrings or a sparkling sweater. Who would take her seriously if she came to work in a getup like Lorraine's? No one.

Suddenly it wasn't a dream at all. This was real. Lorraine was warm; the doorknob at her fingers was cold. Dean was singing, loudly and off-key. If this was a dream, she would've made certain he actually sounded like Elvis, for a change.

This was really her chance to know what the future would be like. Her hand froze on the cold doorknob.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

She waited for Mrs. Courtney to show up and whisk her back home, to her movie and her tea and her flannel pajamas. But it was Lorraine who answered.

"I know."

"I want to go home." It was a plea, but still there was no sign of her ghostly neighbor.

Lorraine opened the door. At first glance, not much had changed. The main office was the same, as most of the people were the same. She saw a few new faces, and there were a couple of old ones missing. A long table against one wall was heavily laden with punch and finger foods, and Lorraine's Christmas decorations had been hung on the walls.

Dean was standing on Lorraine's desk. He'd just launched into "Heartbreak Hotel."

She saw Erica Blue almost immediately. Knew, without being told, that this tall, dark-haired, artificially endowed woman was the gold digger who had gotten her claws into Jimmy. Her holiday dress was covered entirely in silver sequins and was lowcut in front and back. A cigarette dangled from slender, elegant fingers, and a champagne glass rested comfortably in one hand.

"Pretty disgusting, isn't it?" Lorraine hissed.

"Whatever makes Jimmy happy," Jess said softly.

Lorraine snorted. "She's made him miserable, and you know it."

Across the room, Erica lifted her head to stare at Jess. There was no warmth in that gaze, no greeting. She took a fluidly graceful step forward, toward Jess, and Lorraine jumped ship with a mumbled excuse.

"Miss Lennox," Erica said, stopping just a foot or two away from Jess.

"Mrs. Blue." She almost choked on the words. "Merry Christmas."

The cold smile Jess received made her stomach knot. This woman hated her, and without reason. There had never been anything between Jess and Jimmy. One date, one kiss . . . nothing. "If you're looking for my husband, you're out of luck," Erica said, moving in closer. Jess wanted nothing more than to slip back into her office and close the door. "He's holed up in Bartlett's office, going over figures and arguing about money. You know how it is."

"Sure," Jess muttered, though she knew nothing at all.

What on earth did Jimmy see in this man-eater? Stupid question. The woman was model gorgeous, and had a Playboy body. What did Erica see in Jimmy? She looked like the kind of woman who would go in for wild parties and power lunches. She was sleek and fast and deadly, and Jimmy was warm and sweet and modest. Surely they were like oil and water.

At that moment, her sweet and modest Jimmy burst from Terry Bartlett's office. All heads turned as he stormed into the midst of the party.

"Erica!" he shouted. "Let's go!"

Dean stopped singing, Lorraine's voice from the opposite side of the room trailed off in midsentence, and a small circle cleared around Jimmy, as everyone stepped back.

He looked awful. Dressed all in black, from the hat on his head to the scuffed boots, he was obviously angry and tired . . . no, more weary than tired. Jimmy had aged more than three years. He was thinner than she remembered, almost gaunt, and he needed a haircut. And his eyesshe could tell even from here that his eyes weren't bright anymore.

Those eyes lit on her briefly. "Come on, Erica," Jimmy said in a softened voice. "Let's get out of here."

It was as if everything had stopped. No one moved, and there was not so much as a whisper. Jess could have sworn that no one even breathed. The party didn't resume, but waited for Erica's response. And she liked being the center of attention.

"But Jimmy, darling, it's Christmas Eve." Erica lifted her hands, almost as if to invite Jimmy to her. But there was that champagne glass in one hand, and the cigarette in the other, so it was more of a challenging pose than an invitation. "Don't be a spoilsport."

The crowd parted as Jimmy stalked across the room. "It's a little early in the evening to be completely sloshed, don't you think?" he whispered when he was so close no one but he and Erica and Jess could hear.

Erica rolled her eyes toward Jess. "He is such an old man."

"Dammit, Erica," Jimmy said, seething.

Jess backed toward her office door. Hiding? You bet she was. She wanted to close her eyes and call Mrs. Courtney and beg to be taken away from here. This was not her Jimmy, this was not the future, this was not a dream. It was a nightmare.

"Don't leave us just yet, Miss Lennox," Erica said huskily.

Jess froze.

The party had resumed, but at a lower level. Dean gave up his act and left the "stage," but instead of milling with the employees or speaking to Jimmy, he went directly to his office and slammed the door.

Erica drained her glass and brought the cigarette to her red lips. "My husband has some news for you, isn't that right, Jimmy, darling? Since you two are such good old friends," she said sarcastically, "we think you should be the first to know."

"Later." Jimmy slipped his hand beneath Erica's elbow to guide her to the door, but she jerked away from him.

"I tell you what, baby," Erica whispered. "You go ahead and tell her the good news. I've been invited to another party, and I'm sure it'll be more fun than this wake. I'll take a taxi."

She walked away, shaking her silver-draped hips like a sultry actress from an old B movie. "Don't wait up."

Jimmy looked at the floor, and then lifted his head slowly. There were new lines breaking from the corners of his eyes, and those normally bright gray eyes were dull as mist. He was openly bitter, angry, and tense. She couldn't accept this. Wouldn't. This man wasn't her Jimmy Blue.

"Go after her," Jess said with a nod of her head. "Anything you have to tell me can wait."

Jimmy shook his head, and if she wasn't mistaken he actually relaxed a little. "I learned a long time ago that Erica does exactly what she wants. Trying to stop her is like trying to stop a tank with a speed bump."

In spite of everything, Jess smiled. There, at least, was a hint of the Jimmy she remembered.

"You look tired," she whispered.

"Well, you know."

She felt like she should know, but she didn't . . . and then she remembered something Mrs. Courtney had said. Jimmy's latest release wasn't doing well; Vandiver Records was in trouble. His marriage was obviously less than wonderful.

"Things will turn around," she said.

Jimmy smiled, and while it wasn't his bright and wonderful smile, it was better than nothing. "I remember a time when I was the optimist and you were the one waiting for the sky to fall."

Was she? Was she so afraid of moving forward, of taking a chance, that she froze and did nothing?

"How about a drink?" he added.

Jess glanced at the punch bowl on the other side of the room. If Jimmy would step away for a few minutes it would give her a chance to think clearly, to analyze this . . . dream or nightmare or gift or whatever it was.

"Sure."

Jimmy grabbed her hand and pulled her with him toward the door. As he passed the punch table he grabbed up two paper cups without pausing or breaking his stride.

"Blue," she snapped as they approached the door, "what do you think you're doing?"

Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. "You haven't called me Blue in years." His voice was almost nostalgic, and then he laughed, brief and harsh and without humor. "Let's face it. You haven't called me anything at all in years."

Jess allowed Jimmy to all but pull her through the door and into the hallway, past the garish Christmas decorations and to the elevator.

He punched the down button.

"This is not a good idea."

He didn't release her hand. "I've got to talk to somebody, Jess." He turned those weary eyes to her and squeezed the hand he held. There was something almost desperate in his voice, something on the verge of breaking. She couldn't possibly say no.

Chapter Four

A blast of icy wind hit Jess full in the face as they left the building. ''It's cold." She shivered. "I should've grabbed my coat before we left."

As they walked across the parking lot, Jimmy slipped off his leather jacket and placed it around her shoulders. It was warm from his body, every bit as comfy as her flannel pajamas and quilt.

There was no snow, no sleet, just an unrelenting wind on a crisp, clear night. It stung her eyes and burned her cheeks, sensations too real to be a part of any dream. Jimmy guided her, his arm light at her back, to his pickup truck. Most of the parking lot was empty, and the black Ford sat all alone at one end.

"You drive that same old truck," she said into the wind.

"Yeah."

"I figured you'd have a Jag or a Porsche by now," Jess said lightly. "Something fast and dreadfully expensive."

Jimmy threw open the driver's-side door, and with his hands at her waist he lifted Jess onto the seat. She scooted over quickly, to escape the cold and the warm touch of his hands, and he followed, slamming the door forcefully.

Jess leaned against the passenger door, placing as much distance between her and Jimmy as possible. Not that it did any good. He kept coming, until he was leaning over her. She'd spent so much time and energy avoiding this . . . Jimmy's wide shoulders dwarfing her, his body heat wrapping around her, his very closeness making her heart pound hard and fast. His hand slipped to her side, into the pocket of his jacket, and came up with the two paper cups.

He retrieved a pint of Jack Daniels from the glove compartment, and then retreated to a position against the opposite door.

Jess took the paper cups and held them while Jimmy opened the whiskey and poured the amber liquid slowly until the little cups were half-full.

Jimmy removed his hat and tossed it carelessly to the dashboard, where it landed with part of the brim resting on the steering wheel. The light from a street lamp lit his grim face, accentuated the lines and the weariness Jess couldn't get accustomed to.

He lifted his paper cup in a mock salute. "Happy friggin' holidays."

Jess refused to drink to that bitter toast, but Jimmy tipped his cup back.

She'd known from the beginning that success would change him. It changed everyone, even the nicest, most stable guys. She'd seen it happen too many times, and the possibilities had scared her . . . because in spite of all her denials, all her reservations, she didn't want to lose the Jimmy Blue she knew. In her worst imaginings, she'd never expected anything as drastic and disturbing as this.

"You want to know why I still drive this truck?" he asked as he refilled his cup.

"Sure," Jess whispered.

He lifted his eyes to her. "Erica hates it. Only rednecks drive pickup trucks, according to my lovely, social-climbing wife. It embarrasses the hell out of her when I insist we take the truck instead of her Mercedes."

It was petty, unlike the Jimmy Blue she remembered, and Jess saw, in a flicker of his gray eyes, that he agreed with her unspoken assessment.

"So." She didn't want to talk about his wife. "What's the big news?"

Jimmy looked into his cup, but didn't drain it again. For that, Jess was grateful. "I quit."

He mumbled, so she wasn't sure she heard him correctly.

"What?"

He lifted his head and stared straight at her once again. "I quit," he said more clearly. "I'm going home, back to Texas and Dad's ranch. I never should've come to Nashville, and I sure as hell shouldn't have stayed here."

"But . . . but you love it," Jess protested. "You love the music."

He smiled, crookedly and sadly. "I used to. Sometimes I can almost remember what it was like to close my eyes and let the music take over. I could get lost in it, in the peace and the wonder. Sometimes the music came from nowhere, from everywhere. It was always just there, a gift I never understood until it was gone."

"It's not gone." Jimmy waved away her objection. "Oh, hell, yes, it's gone. I know it. The fans know it; they can hear it in my music. That's why Over the Edge isn't selling." He turned his face away from her. "If I'd stayed in Texas and worked Dad's ranch and rodeoed when I felt like it and played in the Armadillo Ballroom with the guys on the weekends, maybe I'd still have it. Maybe I'd still love it. Right now I don't care if I never touch another guitar as long as I live."

She would have expected anger in such a statement, but Jimmy was perfectly calmand perfectly serious.

"I'm so sorry."

Jimmy actually smiled, and it was very close to a real Jimmy Blue smile. "You should apologize, Jess Lennox, since you're the reason I stayed in Nashville in the first place."

Her stomach did a little flip, and she could feel the heat flooding her face. Maybe in the dark he wouldn't be able to see the blush.

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" Jimmy's smile faded. "Dean listened in one weekend when me and the boys were playing at the Armadillo Ballroom, and he came up to me after the last set and invited me to come to Nashville for a visit. I figured, why the hell not? I'd been thrown pretty good in a rodeo just a few weeks earlier, and was still recovering, so why not take a free vacation? I had no intention of making music a career. You know what the odds are of making it in this business, Jess."

Jimmy came away from the door, slowly leaning forward until he placed a hand on Jess's knee. "So I came to Nashville, for a little free vacation, and there you were. I told you some of this years ago, didn't I? How I walked in and saw you standing there?"

Jess nodded. She couldn't speak.

"I wrote "Legs" for you, and I decided to stay." He lifted his hand from her knee as if he'd been burned, and backed away. "Of course, I didn't know that Jess Lennox had a rule about not dating musicians."

The windows were fogging up, closing the two of them off from the rest of the world. She'd never felt so alone, so vulnerable . . . she'd certainly never felt like Jimmy needed her.

"I never told you why," Jess whispered.

"Why what?" Jimmy sipped at his Jack Daniels.

"Why I don't date musicians."

She thought for a moment that he was going to tell her he didn't care . . . it was too little, too late.

"Why?"

Jess scooted slightly away from the cold door. No one but Lorraine knew the whole story. It was too embarrassing, too degrading. "Right after I came to Nashville, I met this . . . this guy. He was talented and charming, and he had a knack for always knowing what to say and when to bring flowers, and we had such great plans. He moved in, and I worked two jobs while he played in clubs that paid nothing or almost nothing. We talked about getting married, once he made the big time."

Even now the memory made her feel small, as if she'd done something wrong.

"You can see this coming, I'm sure," she said dryly, "but I didn't. Rick got his big contract, and I came home to an apartment that had been cleaned completely out. He took everything but my clothes and a chair he didn't like."

"One jerk"

Jess continued in spite of Jimmy's interruption, sure that if she stopped now she'd never finish. "He was a one-hit wonder, here today and gone tomorrow. Do you know, after I started at Vandiver Records he had the nerve to call me and ask me to pull a few strings for him, since he was such a good old friend."

Jimmy slid across the seat. For Jess, there was no place to go but out through the passenger door and into the cold night. She didn't move. "If you want me to I'll hunt him down and rip out his lungs before I head back to Texas."

Jess actually laughed, even though Jimmy was almost on top of her. She was no longer afraid of the way he physically dwarfed her, of the warmth he surrounded her with. She welcomed it. "That won't be necessary. Last I heard he was selling used cars in Chattanooga."

Jimmy took her cup and set it on the dashboard beside his own. "So you thought I was like this jerk."

It was true, but she could see now that Jimmy was nothing like Rick.

"I decided that all musicians were unstable, unpredictable, selfish, and unreliable."

"You didn't give us a chance," he whispered.

Suddenly she was angry. This wasn't her fault. "You're the one who ran off and married Miss Congeniality," she snapped.

Jimmy cupped her chin in one hand and lifted her face. "Yeah, I did. I could sit here and cry on your shoulder and tell you that my wife and I have spent most of the past three years living apart, but if you read the tabloids or listen to the rampant gossip in this town, you already know that. I could tell you that Erica was a different person when I married her. I could tell you that her personality changed the minute she had the ring she wanted on her finger." His voice lowered as his mouth came close to hers. "I could tell you how I waited for you that Christmas, looking out the window every five minutes like a kid waiting for Santa Claus. I could tell you how I gave up when I realized you'd rather spend Christmas day all alone than spend it with me."

When he kissed her it was harsh, demanding, and angry. Jimmy's mouth claimed hers, as he came to her like a starving man. His touch was hard, and as cold as the wind outside their shelter. Jess didn't pull back or try to push Jimmy away, but accepted the mouth on hers with welcoming lips, soft and warm. He needed this, gentleness and acceptance. Love.

Jimmy's anger faded quickly, melting away until the meeting of their lips was as real and tender as the kiss that had come beneath the mistletoe just a few hours ago . . . three years ago.

Her hands slipped around his waist, and she slanted her head in an effort to deepen the kiss. Dream or vision, reality or fantasy, she'd waited a very long time for this.

One warm, large hand slid beneath her skirt to rest high on her thigh, while the other crept around her backbetween the leather jacket and her thin white blouse. Jimmy pulled his lips from hers and drew her head to his shoulder. "I should've done that three years ago," he whispered. "I should've thrown you over my shoulder and carried you out of that Christmas party and dragged you home, kicking and screaming."

"That's not you, Blue," she whispered breathlessly.

"Yeah, well, maybe if it was we wouldn't be in this mess."

He held her, but didn't kiss her again. He was a married man, for God's sake. Still, this was wonderful and warm, for the moment.

"When you looked at me tonight, really looked at me, I almost grabbed you up then and there. For the past three years you've been turning away when you see me, shifting your eyes so you don't have to look at me . . . hiding out in your office when I'm around."

She knew herself well enough to know that was exactly how she would react to Jimmy coming home from Hollywood with a stunning wife in tow.

"What did we do wrong?" Jess whispered.

"What didn't we do wrong?"

If she could go back, she'd do so many things differently. Jimmy deserved better than Erica; he deserved to cherish and love his gift of music for the rest of his life. He deserved to be loved, and so did she.

"When are you leaving for Texas?"

Jimmy ran his hand up and down her back. "Next week."

"I can't believe Erica was so smug about a move to Texas," Jess admitted. "I mean, she doesn't exactly strike me as a country girl."

That got a real laugh out of Jimmy, and Jess had to lift her head to watch the transformation. His eyes lit up, and his lips formed a real, true Blue smile. She knew then that whatever had happened, it wasn't too late.

"Erica thinks we're moving to Hollywood," he said as the laughter died. "That was her idea when I told her I was quitting the music business, and she doesn't seem to hear me say no. She's got plans of her own, that girl does."

"You don't think she'll go to Texas with you?"

Jimmy shook his head slowly. "Not Erica. There's nothing for her in Texas, and she and my mother . . . well, to say they never got along is a huge understatement."

"I should say I'm sorry, but I'm not."

Jimmy traced her cheek with a lingering finger. "When I get everything worked out with Erica, if I call you and invite you to Texas . . ."

"I'll be there."

Maybe it had been a bumpy road, but Jess realized as she looked up at Jimmy that she loved him . . . had always loved him.

He kissed her again.

When the door flew open they were hit with a blast of cold air, and Jess almost fell backward onto the asphalt. Jimmy caught her and pulled her to safety against his chest.

"Well, well," Erica droned. "Isn't this cozy."

Jimmy's wife stood in the parking lot, feet wide apart, mink coat gathered against the cold. The icy wind whipped her short, dark hair. "Nothing happened, Erica," Jimmy said tiredly. "Go back to your party."

"And leave you here with this . . . this tramp?" Erica snapped. "I knew something was going on. How long, baby? A year? Two? From the day we got married?"

"Erica, not here," Jimmy said, seething.

"Why not here?" Erica smiled, like a wild animal moving in for the kill. "Do you wonder why I'm not surprised to catch you in a compromising position with my husband, Miss Lennox?" She stepped toward the truck, blocking some of the cold wind that had all but frozen Jess.

"When Jimmy drinks too muchwhich, by the way, has become a common occurrence in the past two yearshe talks in his sleep. I've gotten pretty goddamned tired of being grabbed in the middle of the night while he whispers your name."

It was a nightmare, cold and frightening and truly horrid. Erica reached beneath her mink coat and drew out a gun that fit neatly in the palm of her hand. She pulled back the slide and let it pop into place, and then she aimed at Jess.

"Merry Christmas, Jimmy."

Everything happened at once. Jimmy grabbed Jess and spun her around, contorting their bodies as the gun fired. The paper cups on the dashboard fell over, and the whiskey spewed across Jess's face and Jimmy's.

And then Jimmy was very still. He held her, but his arms were loose and cold. Light from the street lamp broke through the open door and lit his pale face, illuminated the eyes that were growing dim as she watched. ''I love you," he whispered, but there was no sound.

"Jimmy!" She grasped the front of his shirt, her hold alone keeping him from falling backward and out of the truck.

Erica was screaming, a wild, hysterical cry, and already there were the insistent sounds of shouts and running footsteps as people raced toward the truck.

None of it was real. It was distant and muffled and wrong.

Jimmy wanted to fall back and away from her. It took all Jess's strength to keep him in an upright position, to keep his body next to hers. She knew, she just knew, that if he fell over he would be dead.

And then she looked into his face and knew that it was already too late. He was gone.

With the last of her strength, she pulled him forward so that his weight was against her, and then she buried her face against his chest and closed her eyes. In the darkness, she tried to push away the screams and the cold and the knowledge that Jimmy was gone.

Chapter Five

Jess didn't want to open her eyes. Never again. Jimmy was dead, gone, shot in the back. . . .

"Come on, we don't have much time."

She knew that voice. It was soft and sweet and demanding. It was Mrs. Courtney, or else that pesky apparition who had chosen to take the old lady's form.

Dreading what she would see, Jess lifted her head. She was back in her office, sitting in her swivel chair and resting her arms and head on the desk. Mrs. Courtney was perched precariously atop the file cabinet.

"There you are." The misty Mrs. Courtney gave Jess a wide smile. "I need you clearheaded," she said, silently snapping her hazy white fingers. "As I said, we haven't much time."

"Who are you?" Jess rasped.

Mrs. Courtney shook her head in dismay. "We don't have time for explanations . . ."

"Who are you?" Jess asked again, rising shakily from her chair. "A gift. You said this was a gift, and I had to watch Jimmy die. It was sordid and ugly and . . . and I can't go through that again. Who are you?" As it had in her apartment, the shimmering figure changed. From Mrs. Courtney to Jess's brother Peter, crying because for the first time he wouldn't see his kids at Christmas. From a department-store Santa to her mother, crying over spoiled plans. Her sister, Marty, when she'd been six and had found that special toy beneath the tree, and then a drunken Uncle Emmitt. Her father, apparently shocked to learn that Santa had delivered the expensive dollhouse Jess had her heart set on, to Jimmy, his eyes cutting upward to the mistletoe.

And back to Mrs. Courtney. "Now do you realize what I am?"

Jess shook her head, unable to speak.

"I am the Spirit of Christmas. I am made of all your memories, good and bad, rolled into one."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Jess felt as though she'd been physically and mentally wrung out. Her muscles ached, her eyes burned, and she couldn't think clearly.

"You've seen one Christmas," the entity said softly. "Now it's time to see another."

"No." Jess shook her head. "I can't."

"Remember, Jess, that this is the future. It hasn't happened yet, and is not unyielding." Mrs. Courtney floated from her perch. "Some aspects of the years yet to come are meant to be; others are only waiting to be shaped by your hand. Your future is what you make of it. Look around you."

Jess surveyed the office that should be familiar, but many things had changed. There was an ornately decorated Christmas tree in one corner, and a plastic Santa hung in the window. There was a strand of real pine above the door, filling the office with that unmistakable scent.

She looked down at the calendar on her desk. January, 2001, stared up at her again, but the appointments were numerous, and in someone else's very messy handwriting.

The reluctant perusal continued. Instead of a sensible and businesslike outfit, Jess found that she was wearing a green-and-gold Christmas sweater and a short green skirt.

There was nothing she could do but steel herself for the worst and see this vision through to the end. "What's changed this time?" Jess muttered.

"Everything," Mrs. Courtney whispered.

There was a brief knock at the door, and it swung in to reveal a hugely pregnant Lorraine, dressed in the same billowing red-and-gold maternity blouse she'd been wearing the last time Jess had awakened in this office.

"Okay, you can come out now," Lorraine said brightly.

"I can?"

"Jimmy says it's time."

Jimmy. Jess almost knocked Lorraine down as she left the office.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight she found waiting for her. Jimmy was perfectly healthy, gorgeous, smiling . . . and dressed in a white Elvis jumpsuit identical to Dean's. The two of them stood atop the usual stageLorraine's deskready to sing.

Instead of karaoke, this year, there was only Jimmy's guitar.

They began to sing, "Blue Christmas," of course, and Jess started to cry. She couldn't stop the quiet tears, and didn't care to, at the moment.

Some things never changed. The crowd's eyes and grins were turned up to the makeshift stage, and every now and then a female employee sighed loudly, as was expected. Dean still couldn't sing, but for once it didn't matter.

Jimmy was alive and well and staring down at her as he sang. His easy grin faded when he saw her silent tears, and so to reassure him she smiled as widely as she could. She would do whatever she couldwhatever she had to doto protect him from Erica. To protect him from everything.

When the song was finished, Jimmy left the "stage," and someone plugged in the karaoke for Dean to continue the show. Jimmy handed the guitar off to a waiting Lorraine, and came straight to Jess.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

She wanted to throw her arms around him, but she satisfied herself with laying a hand against his chest. "You just look so . . . so . . ."

"Ridiculous," he said.

"Wonderful."

Jimmy held out his arms and studied the red and green spangles on his sleeve. "Dean gave it to me for Christmas, and I thought you might get a kick out of it."

Jess couldn't speak. Her heart was in her throat, and besides, what could she say?

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jimmy whispered as he reached out and wiped a single fresh tear from her cheek.

Jess nodded her head, and Jimmy leaned forward to kiss her quickly, a familiar and comfortable kiss.

"People are watching," she whispered as he pulled away.

Jimmy grinned and kissed her again. "I'll kiss my wife wherever and whenever I want."

Her heart skipped a beat, and then her entire body shivered. Married? To Jimmy? She glanced down at her left hand, and sure enough there it was. A diamond solitaire engagement ring and a plain gold band. There was a matching gold band on Jimmy's finger.

"Come on." He slipped an arm around her waist and guided her to her office. "You left your coat in Lorraine's office, didn't you?"

Lorraine's office? Mrs. Courtney said that everything had changed, but this was too much, too fast. Jimmy led Jess into her office, and grabbed her coat from the rack by the window.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again when they were alone in her office. He helped her slip her arms into the coat, and with his mouth near her ear he whispered, "Come on, Jess, you're pale as a ghost. Are you sick? Dizzy? Tired?"

He sounded nearly frantic.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"Good," he breathed, and he sounded truly relieved. "I don't mean to be a pest, but you're going to have to get used to me being overprotective for the next seven and a half months." He reached around her and settled a large hand, fingers spread, over her belly.

She was married to Jimmy, Lorraine had her office and apparently her job. And she was pregnant. Mrs. Courtney was right. Everything had changed.

Dean was well into "Viva Las Vegas" as Jess and Jimmy walked, hand in hand, from Lorraine's office to the door. There were a few soft good-byes and holiday greetings, but most of the attention was on Elvis.

Lorraine saw Jess and Jimmy trying to make a quick getaway, and waylaid them at the door. She sure was quick for a cumbersomely pregnant woman.

"Not so fast, you two," Lorraine said, throwing her arms around Jess's shoulders for a quick hug. Lorraine's huge stomach pressed against Jess's flat one, and she had a sudden and startling image of their children, so close and so new.

They would grow up together, these children. Birthday parties, sleepovers, summer campthey would be the best of friends just as their mothers were best of friends.

She wanted to cry all over again.

"Merry Christmas," Lorraine said brightly. Her smile faded when she saw the tears in Jess's eyes. "What's wrong?"

Jess shook her head. "Nothing."

"She's been like this since she saw me in this getup." Jimmy put his arm around Jess's shoulder and leaned toward Lorraine. "I never should have let Dean talk me into this. I thought it would be funny, but instead of laughing . . ."

"In my first three months I cried all the time," Lorraine revealed in a whisper. "When I was sad, when I was happy, even at beer commercials. I imagine the prospect of facing both sets of parents, brothers, sisters . . ."

"What?" All Jess's sentimental thoughts for her child's future were whisked away. "Both sets of parents?"

Jimmy guided Jess into the hallway. "I'm taking you to the doctor, right now."

"I don't need a doctor," Jess insisted as Jimmy punched the down button. "It's just . . . Lorraine's right. My emotions are on edge, and if I choose Christmas Eve to get mushy and sentimental because I have you and a good friend like Lorraine, well, I think that should be allowed."

She didn't want to waste this time at the doctor's office, or sitting in the emergency room because Jimmy thought she'd lost her mind.

He guided her into the elevator, protective arm around her waist. "You didn't really forget that everyone was coming tomorrow, did you?"

Everyone. What a nightmare. "Of course not." She leaned into Jimmy's side. "I was just kidding."

She could feel him relax, the muscles in his arm and his shoulder loosening considerably as his arm closed even more completely around her.

This she could accept, for a while. Dream or impossible reality, it was wonderful. And it felt real. Jimmy's arm around her, his voice so clear and sweet . . . but then, the last time had felt real, too.

She slipped her free hand under her coat and over her belly, palm down and fingers spread. A baby. A child who, if she didn't change her ways, would never be born. Was that what the spirit was trying to tell her?

Jimmy placed his hand over hers, his long fingers spreading past hers and brushing the green sweater.

"Have you decided?" he asked softly. "Do you want to tell everybody about the baby tomorrow, or do you want to wait?"

A part of her wanted to shout the news to the world, but another part of her wanted to hang on to this moment as if the secret were gold. "What do you want to do?"

"Well, your mother and mine will both be royally pissed if they find out you told Lorraine and not them, but I think I'd rather wait. Tomorrow's going to be hectic enough without breaking the news to seventeen people." He leaned across and kissed her uplifted lips. It was a natural and impulsive kiss. "To tell the truth, I just want to keep the two of you all to myself for a while."

The elevator doors opened onto a deserted lobby. "Okay, Jimmy," she agreed. "We won't tell anyone else just yet."

She didn't know if she would even be here to see tomorrow. At any moment, she could close her eyes and find herself whisked to another future, maybe where Lorraine and Jimmy were married, and Jess was dressed in a white bell-bottomed jumpsuit with red and green spangles and singing "Blue Christmas" with Dean.

They ran through the parking lot, trying to reach the truck and escape the cold wind. Jess's heart skipped a beat at the sight of the pickup truck parked in the same spot it had been on her last visitdreamto this time. There were no other cars around it, and the street lamp shone down brightly, marking the pickup like a spotlight. Just a few minutes agoat least it seemed like just a few minutes agoErica had shot Jimmy while they sat in that truck. How could she bear this? If she started to panic, if she refused to set foot in that truck, Jimmy would surely take her to a doctor, Christmas Eve or not.

He opened the driver's door and lifted her, hands around her waist, into the truck. She slid across, not all the way but to the middle. Jimmy jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut.

This was a different time. There was no Erica, no gun. No danger. Jess reached out and trailed her fingers along the dashboard.

"You could afford a new truck," she said softly.

Jimmy's hand stilled over the keys he'd already slammed into the ignition. He turned to her, and his face was lit and shadowed by the dull lamplight that shone through the window. She couldn't see his eyes nearly well enough to suit her, and the shadows accentuated the sharpness of his jaw, the evening stubble there, full, fabulous lips. The collar of the white jumpsuit was turned up, and she smiled brightly. He did look incredibly silly.

"I'll never sell this truck," he said seriously. "It's not my fault that your car decided to blow the transmission today of all days."

"You love this truck, don't you?"

Jimmy leaned toward her, kissed her again. It was amazing how often and how naturally he came to her this way. A kiss, a touch, a look, spontaneous and comfortable and real.

"We had our first date in this truck, even though you swore for months that it wasn't a date at all." Jimmy slid from behind the steering wheel and wrapped an arm over her shoulder. ''We've argued in this truck, made up, and made love right here." He nuzzled her neck, kissed her throat, and Jess could imagine too well falling back and making love to Jimmy now, here.

"Pickup was my best-selling CD so far," he continued, and Jess realized that she was falling slowly backward and Jimmy was coming with her. "When this truck dies, it gets a proper burial."

Jimmy slipped his hand beneath her coat and under her sweater. Fingers swept over her skin, warm hands on a cold night heating her until the interior of the truck wasn't just warm . . . it was hot.

His hand rested on her breast as he kissed her again. She was practically lying down, and Jimmy towered over her, wrapped himself around her. Her thighs parted, and Jimmy rested between them.

It seemed as if she'd wanted him forever. She'd denied it, fought it, but she knew now that this was right. More than right, it was meant to be. Jimmy shifted his body so that he touched her from locked lips to spread knees, and she could feel his hardened arousal pressing insistently against her inner thigh.

She slipped her hand between their bodies and found the zipper that started at the neck of his jumpsuit and ended somewhere beneath the waist. With a little tug it slipped downward slowly, to mid-chest, and Jess tucked her hand between the white fabric and Jimmy's warm chest. Her hand rested over his heart.

The passenger door flew open, and they were hit with an icy blast of cold air. Jimmy flew up, bringing Jess with him with his hand at her back and her hand trapped awkwardly beneath the white polyester. She twisted her head quickly, wondering, dreading what she might see there.

It was only Dean, complete with jumpsuit and Elvis wig, but without the dark glasses. A long red scarf whipped in the wind. There was a neatly folded pile of clothes in his hands, jeans and a denim jacket, scuffed boots and Jimmy's black cowboy hat.

"You forgot these," he said, apparently not a bit embarrassed to have interrupted as he dropped the clothes onto Jess's lap. She managed to free her hand in time to keep the bundle from slipping to the floor. "And this." He tossed a manila envelope to Jimmy. "It's got the new tour dates, and you're clear from June to October, just like you wanted. Ready to tell me what's up?''

"Major production," Jimmy said with a smile. "I'll tell you all about it after the first of the year."

Dean grumbled. He didn't like not knowing everything, but Jess knew there was no other choice but to keep Dean in the dark. As soon as he knew about the baby, it would turn into a marketing tool. The tabloids, the magazines, a few colorful announcements on CMT.

"Merry Christmas, Dean." Jimmy reached across Jess to grab the door handle and close off his A&R man and the cold wind.

Dean caught the door before it could swing closed. He leaned into the truck and smiled wickedly. "If you guys are gonna break with tradition and have sex regularly after nearly three years of marriage, do us all a favor and get a room. Better yet, go home." Dean started to close the door, but pulled it back at the last moment. "Tell me the truth. It's the outfit, right?" He directed his question to Jess. "There's something about white bell bottoms that makes a man irresistible."

Jimmy reached across Jess once again, grabbed the door handle in his hand, and pulled. Dean's only choice was to back up or brace for the blow of the door against his body. He jumped back quickly, and his mischievous grin never faded.

Chapter Six

Jess waited anxiously. There had been invitations, most of them delivered personally and to her alone, but she'd never been to Jimmy's house. He'd thrown a big Sunday-afternoon barbecue shortly after buying the place, and had invited everyone at Vandiver Records. He threw, she heard tell, quite a party.

Jess had almost gone. She couldn't remember now if it had been laundry or a headache or a really good old movie on TV that had made her change her mind at the last minute. She recognized now that she'd searched for and found an excuse to stay home that Sunday. Maybe Mrs. Courtney was right. Maybe she'd been hiding for a long time.

His home was a sprawling ranch house north of Nashville, set on forty-five or so acres. There was an old barn, a small bunkhouse, a corral in need of repair, and green, rolling hills that seemed to wave on forever. At least, that was what Lorraine had told her.

Jimmy planned on starting a horse ranch here, someday, when his career waned and he had the time to devote to an obsession other than his music. He'd told her that much one afternoon shortly after the barbecue she'd missed, as he'd pressed for a decent excuse. No matter how she tried, she couldn't see Jimmy completely away from the music business. It was too much a part of him.

They pulled into a circular drive, and he stopped the truck directly in front of the house. Surrounded by trees, it was a sizable cabin situated in the middle of nowhere. It was simple and rustic, open and inviting, an oasis not far from the city, and yet so distant. There was nothing ostentatious about Jimmy's ranch house. It suited him.

Before her there were a few steps, a small porch, and heavy-looking double doors, each sporting a wreath of real pine, gold bows, and lacy angels of cream and white and gold. There was a Christmas tree, bright with tiny red and green lights, in the picture window beside the front door.

She was still staring at the house when Jimmy appeared at her door and opened it.

He helped her from the truck, taking her hand and, as she slid down, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"You're worried about tomorrow, aren't you?" Jimmy said as they hurried to the door to escape the bitter wind.

Jess shook her head.

"Everything's planned perfectly. The airport van will deliver everybody by two o'clock." He unlocked the front door, and together they slipped into a warm, cozy house. "The turkey will be ready by three, and Florence promised that everything else would be ready before she left this afternoon. Stuffing, squash casserole, green beans, pumpkin pies. All we have to do is heat and serve." He kept talking, about congealed salad and fruit compotes, but Jess was only half listening. Jimmy led her through the front door and a wide foyer into a huge room, a great room that was long and tall, with beamed ceilings and a stone fireplace and a collection of mismatched chairs that were somehow harmonious, arranged, as they were, around a long sofa. The room was illuminated only by the soft red and green lights on the Christmas tree.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Jess whispered. It was truly magnificent, warm and flawless and . . . and somehow home.

The quiet beauty was disrupted when a large black dog burst into the room at the other end. Dog? It looked more like a wolf, with black eyes and pointed ears, and that pink tongue flapping as it ran toward Jess and Jimmy on powerful legs.

"There's my Rudy," Jimmy said, dropping down to greet the frantic animal. Not a wolf, Jess decided, but a dog after all. Maybe a black Lab.

Jimmy knelt there and allowed the dog to place its paws on his shoulders and nuzzle against his neck. His hands settled against a silky black coat, to pet the large and beautiful animal in a hearty greeting. Jimmy practically cooed at the dog, who danced on its hind legs and wagged a bushy black tail. In a moment, the animal was satisfied, and dropped to all fours.

Rudy lifted those black eyes to Jess and cocked his head. Apparently he had been trained not to greet her with as much enthusiasm as he did Jimmy.

Jess reached down and scratched the dog between the ears as Jimmy stood. The animal reacted at once to her touch, relaxed visibly as she stroked the silky coat.

Jimmy took Jess's coat and hung it on the coatrack in the foyer. She smiled as she watched him, that long and lean body encased in white, the bell bottoms flapping around white patent-leather boots. Dean had always tried to get Jimmy into costume, and he'd finally managed just thatfor a single night.

The top A&R man at Vandiver Records was as flamboyant as Jimmy was down-to-earth, and he was into "the show." The lights and the costumes, the backup dancers, pyrotechnics if the time and the song were right.

Some artists were willing to be led into that . . . Jimmy wasn't. He loved the music, not the show.

Since he was no longer the center of attention, Rudy left the roomat a slower pace than he'd entered. He disappeared around the corner, and a moment later Jess heard the flapping sound of plastic against a solid surface. A doggie door big enough for Rudy?

Sharp barking from the backyard confirmed her suspicion. It sounded like Rudy had found a squirrel or a possum to play with.

Jess turned to the Christmas tree, a tall and perfectly shaped spruce that was decorated with gold balls and a handful of mismatched ornaments in addition to the red and green lights. It was lovely, but it surely hadn't been professionally decorated. The lights were not perfectly balanced in distribution, and there was a spot bare of ornaments near the window. One of the ornaments, an angel playing the harp, had slipped and somehow hung almost upside down. The tinsel looked as if someone had started carefully, hanging one strand at a time, and ended by throwing handfuls at the tree. The winged angel on the top of the tree was slightly canted to one side.

The imperfect Christmas tree looked like something she and Jimmy had decorated together, and she wished for a memory of that time, a tiny remembrance of some sort.

Jimmy came up behind Jess and slipped his arms around her waist, resting his head lightly on her shoulder. "Now," he whispered into her ear. "Where were we?"

They hadn't said much on the way home, hadn't said much at all since Dean had interrupted them. Jess had tried to sort out her thoughtstrying to decipher what was real and what was notand Jimmy had driven much too fast, and with all of his attention apparently on the road.

His hands slipped beneath her sweater and settled over bare skin. Those hands were warm, gentle, comfortable on her flesh. For Jimmy, this was another night with his wife. For Jess, it was their first time together. She wanted it to be perfect, but what if she said or did something wrong? What if she spoiled this?

She turned in his arms slowly and lifted her face. The desire she'd seen earlier was in his eyes, and there was something more. Love. She recognized the love, felt it, but it didn't scare her the way it had when she'd seen the first twinkling of that emotion in Jimmy's smiling eyes.

Their mouths came together, Jimmy leaning down and Jess standing on her toes. Her lips parted, eager, anxious lips that savored the taste of Jimmy's mouth.

His hand found the bra clasp at her back, and without pausing a beat he flicked it open. Being free of the restraint was liberating, and then Jimmy slid a hand beneath the silky material and closed it over her breast.

There was no more wondering if this was real or a dream. It had to be real. She could feel Jimmy's hands on her flesh and the quickening of her heart, she could taste Jimmy's lips, she could hear the rasp of his jumpsuit against her skirt, she could smell the Christmas tree, and when she opened her eyes she saw Jimmy as clear and real as when he'd kissed her beneath the mistletoe. All five senses were in working order.

She slipped both hands between their bodies, and found the zipper with trembling fingers. One hand slid downward between his chest and hers, opening the zipper as she went. The other hand found his chest, the warmth of his skin and the beat of his own heart.

They moved in a slow harmony as sure as one of Jimmy's songs. He unzipped her skirt and it fell to the floor, where she kicked it away, along with her shoes. She slipped the white fabric from his shoulders and down his arms. The kisses continued, light and then demanding. Jimmy pulled the sweater over her head and peeled away the emerald green silk bra he'd unfastened only a moment earlier. And then his warm, moist lips closed over a nipple. Jess nearly buckled with the sensations that surged through her.

That warm mouth left her breast and trailed slowly downward. With every move of those lips against her flesh, with every gentle touch of his hands, Jess melted a little more.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her panty hose and emerald green panties, and he slipped them down and away.

There was no awkwardness in their easy movements, no fumbling uncertainty. Jimmy knew her body, knew how and where to touch her to push her to a point where all she felt and all she knew was him.

There were, no doubt, a number of perfectly good beds in this house, but somehow she knew it was right that they make love here, on the floor and by the light of the Christmas tree.

With a boldness she'd never known before, Jess slipped her hand into the jumpsuit that was halfway off and closed her fingers around the part of him that had been persistently pressing against her through layers of clothing. Jimmy moaned, a low groan deep in his throat that Jess instinctively answered.

His tongue invaded her mouth, deep, hard, and insistent. She was ready to feel Jimmy inside her, wanted him to ease the ache with another, more intimate invasion.

With both hands, she slid the jumpsuit over his hips and down. Jimmy kicked the white boots away, and discarded the costume as he lowered Jess to the floor.

"This is a Christmas tradition I'll never give up," he said, towering over her, covering her completely. The lights from the tree lit one half of his face for her, and she traced his jaw as she lifted her lips to kiss him again.

He didn't enter her immediately, but touched her intimately with his fingers, stroking and teasing until she was ready to fracture into a million pieces.

When she couldn't take any more, Jimmy took his hand away, and pressed gently and surely until he was inside her. For a long moment he was still, and then he began to thrust his hips against her, to stroke her with plunge after plunge.

As when they'd undressed one another, there was a synchronization in their movements that was as much a part of the act as the meeting of their bodies. He knew her, and against all odds she knew him just as well.

When the climax came, as he seemed to drive deeper than before, Jess clutched at Jimmy and lifted her hips. An uncontrollable cry left her lips, a cry of love and pleasure and brilliance. She felt his own completion in the tightening of his muscles and the release deep within her body, in the waning waves of her own.

He didn't leave her, but settled his head against her shoulder and kissed her neck softly, as if he had no energy left. Jess smiled as she threaded her fingers through his hair.

"Tradition, huh?" she whispered weakly.

Jimmy lifted his head to stare down at her. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and she reached out to push it back. How many times had she felt compelled to do just that, and then stopped herself because that simple movement revealed too much?

"I love you," she whispered, knowing it was true knowing it had always been true. Even on that first date, the one that had scared her to death, because she'd promised herself she'd never let herself fall for any man so hard or so fast ever again.

''I love you, too," he whispered, kissing her softly. "From the moment I saw you, I knew it was right. You were damned stubborn, Jess. There was a time when I almost gave up on us." He stared down at her, unsmiling. The lights from the tree lit his face strangely, made him appear, for a moment, less than substantial. It was just a trick of the light, she assured herself, but she touched his cheek for assurance. In spite of the odd light, he felt real enough. "Sometimes I wonder where I would be without you in my life," he whispered, "and it scares me."

Jess kissed him again, lightly and possessively. She didn't want to think about where Jimmy would be without her. She knew; she had seen what would happen if she remained stubborn . . . if Jimmy gave up on her . . . and it scared her, too.

Her wandering hand fell across a boot, and Jess pulled it closer. She turned her head, and on examining the short white patent-leather boot and the discarded jumpsuit beside it, she smiled. A moment later she giggled. As Jimmy towered over her with a mock scowl on his face, she crumpled into a fit of hysterical laughter.

Chapter Seven

A fire was blazing in the stone fireplace, adding a warm radiance to the great room. Standing so close to the blaze, she could practically hear her freshly washed hair drying, pulling into waves and curls that had never obeyed her or the rules of fashion. Jess grabbed the lapels of the terry robe she wore and listened to the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of the shower.

How could it be that the two possible futures she saw in this dream or mystical gift or whatever it was were so different? Without Jimmy, her life and his were wretched. With Jimmy, together, their life was charmed.

She'd been so afraid of falling in love with him.

There had been a moment on that date that was not a date when she'd realized what was happening. What had it been? His hand so natural at the small of her back. A look, a laugh. The whisper of her name . . .

Rudy padded into the room and settled himself at her feet, curling up on the oval rug before the fireplace. Jess dropped to her knees and scratched the dog between his pointed ears.

"Is this your bed?" Rudy's answer was to rest his contented head on the rug while Jess continued to stroke the silky coat. There was a satisfied whine from deep in his throat, his eyes closed, and in minutes he was asleep.

How long would she be here? An hour? A day? Jess left Rudy guarding the great room and explored the house while Jimmy showered.

A huge kitchen was just off the great room. There was an oak island, a breakfast nook, and the latest in appliances, including a restaurant-size refrigerator. She peeked inside, and sure enough, there was a turkey still in the wrapping on the bottom shelf. Casseroles, indistinguishable since they were all covered with bread crumbs or cracker crumbs or crunchy canned onion rings, filled the next shelf up. There was a huge pan of corn-bread dressing, ready for the oven, and the fruit and congealed salads, four different kinds. Something for everyone, she supposed.

Jimmy was right. Piece of cake.

There were four pumpkin pies on the kitchen counter, homemade and tempting. "Florence," Jess whispered as she leaned forward to take a deep sniff of the fragrant pies, "I don't know you yet, but already I adore you."

There was a mud room, where the washer and dryer were located, and that was where the doggy door was, a huge square of heavy plastic over an opening low in the door. A quick peek through a small window high in the door revealed that the door opened onto a large and wooded, fenced-in backyard. The privacy fence was a good six feet tall.

She took a quick tour through the rest of the house. There were six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a large dining room, and an office that was probably hers. She paused in the doorway for a moment, recognizing her favorite chair, her books, her collection of ceramic catsold, familiar ones and a few new additions to the collection. The old desk was hers, but there was a new computer sitting on it.

Back in the great room, she found herself thumbing through the CDs beside the stereo. Jimmy's were together, there at the front. Legs, Blue Christmas, and then the ones she'd never heard of: Heart 2 Heart, Pickup, and Promises. No Over the Edge, she noticed with a sigh of relief.

It didn't seem quite fair to check out the new CDs, so she slipped Blue Christmas from the rack and put it in the CD player.

Jimmy had such a great voice, and the song filled the room that was magically lit with only firelight and the glow of the Christmas tree.

After a few bars Rudy joined in, lifting his head and howling softly from his bed by the fireplace.

"I never should have tried to teach him to sing," Jimmy said as he stepped into the room. His hair was still damp, and instead of a robe he'd slipped into a pair of old jeans. And nothing else. Jess's heart skipped a beat. He was so beautiful.

"Come on, sugar," he said as he stepped toward her. "You know I hate to listen to myself."

"Why?" she asked as he punched the button that brought "Blue Christmas"and Rudy's accompanimentto a sudden halt.

"I hear every mistake, everything I should've done . . . better." He switched on the radio. "You want Christmas music? Here you go. Nothing but Christmas music for the next twenty-four hours."

The song playing on the radio was "Baby, It's Cold Outside," the same version that had been playing on her ride home from work just . . . a few hours ago? Three years ago? Jess shivered.

"Are you okay?" Jimmy wrapped an arm around her and led her to a wide chair, a solid-blue padded chair that was sized somewhere between a regular chair and a loveseat. Jimmy sat down and brought Jess with him.

"I just got a little chill."

Jimmy wrapped his arms around her to warm her up, and Jess curled into his chest.

"I checked out the kitchen," she said into his chest. "Everything's set for tomorrow. All we have to do is cook the turkey and heat the casseroles and the dressing and we're done."

"I told Florence I didn't want you doing too much this year."

"You did?" Jess smiled, a small smile toward the low fire.

"I did."

They cuddled in the wide chair before the fire, listening to Christmas music and saying little or nothing. Everything was touched with perfection, holiday enchantment of a sort that Jess had never known. The fire, the music, the light from the Christmas tree . . . and Jimmy's easy touch. It was a wonderful evening. Even Rudy was silent, apparently not inclined to sing along with anyone but Jimmy. He seemed as content and comfortable as Jess was.

Jess was tempted to close her eyes and go to sleep in Jimmy's arms . . . but where would she wake up? In her apartment? In another, less wonderful future? Would she wake up again in her office to hear Dean doing his Elvis impersonation?

The news came on, a break in the continuous holiday music. Weather, a traffic report, and a radar update indicating that Santa had been spotted in Knoxville and that all children in the Nashville area should go directly to bed. There followed a bit of local news, and then the newsman calmly announced that the actress Erica Kenyon had been arrested in Denver, Colorado, for shooting her husband, veteran baseball left-fielder Mike Barkley.

"Do you remember her?" Jimmy asked sharply. Obviously he was surprised by the news. "We met her in LA when I did that movie."

"I remember her," Jess said coldly.

Jimmy shifted slightly, and with a finger under Jess's chin forced her to look up at him. "You didn't like her from the day we got there and she came up to us to say hello till the day we left for Vegas. I thought she was a real nice girl. . . ."

Jess snorted. "According to what we just heard, you're a poor judge of character."

"The woman welcomed us to Hollywood, and you pulled me aside to tell me that she was bad news."

"And I was right."

Jimmy smiled. "You were jealous."

She didn't want to talk about Erica, didn't want to remember the dreamthe visionwhere Jimmy had died in her arms.

When the news was over, the Christmas music began again. Starting with Jimmy's "Blue Christmas." Rudy began to sing, and Jimmy groaned as he released Jess and left her alone on the chair. The music came to an abrupt end, and Rudy silently rested his head on the rug once again.

"Come on." Jimmy grabbed Jess's hands and pulled her to her feet. "It's time for bed, anyway."

"Coward," she accused. Her face was mere inches from Jimmy's bare chest, and suddenly it was too tempting to resist. Jess rocked forward slightly and placed her lips against his flesh, kissing his hard and warm chest lightly. "You have a wonderful voice. There's not a single note in that particular song that could have been sung better."

Jimmy clasped his hands behind her back and held her tight. "Well . . ." he drawled.

"No argument," Jess insisted as she lifted her face to his. "Not even a little one. Not tonight."

He lifted her off her feet and carried her away from the fire and the Christmas tree, down the hall to the master bedroom. This one chamber was almost as big as her apartment, and there were two connected bathrooms, his and hers. A king-size bed with a rich mahogany headboard dominated the room, and that was where Jimmy gently dropped her.

The lamp on the bedside table burned softly, casting deep shadows and illuminating the bed and the green quilt there with a radiance as mystical as the Christmas lights.

Jimmy tugged at her belt and it fell away, allowing the robe to open and reveal that she wore nothing underneath. He smiled, but he wasn't surprised. His hands studied her, stilled on her belly with a reverence, and rose to her sensitive breasts.

He joined her on the bed and made love to her again, without the urgency of the first time. Gentle and loving, Jimmy claimed her, heart and soul and body, and the long minutes that passed while he became a part of her were perfection.

Exhausted and satisfied, they huddled together beneath the quilt that formed a cocoon that shielded them from the rest of the world.

She could happily stay here forever, with Jimmy and their baby and a big dog named Rudy. If she wished it hard enough, would she be allowed to remain?

"The alarm's set for seven," Jimmy said languidly into her ear. "That'll give us plenty of time to get ready for the horde to arrive."

His eyes drifted closed.

"I don't want to go to sleep," Jess whispered, suddenly afraid. What if she woke somewhere else, and Jimmy wasn't there?

"You need your rest. The baby needs the rest, too." One hand rubbed warmly and slowly against her back, while the other barely touched her stomach. "Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

Jimmy was tired, and he drifted off easily to sleep. Jess could feel the exhaustion pulling at her, but she fought it as long as she could, keeping her eyes open so she could watch him. Just watch.

He was sweet and caring and beautiful and talentedthe perfect man. She'd fought him for so long, allowing her fears to rob her of precious moments with the man she loved. If she got another chance, she'd do a lot of things differently.

As she drifted off to sleep she wondered if she'd dream. Could you have a dream within a dream?

There were fragmented snatches of dreamsDean and his karaoke machine, Lorraine and Mrs. Courtney. The real Mrs. Courtney and then the ghostly Mrs. Courtney. Gingerbread cookies everywhere. And Jimmy was always there.

When Jess opened her eyes her legs were tangled with Jimmy's. She was wonderfully warm and safe. The room was lit, gray with early morning light, and she was still here! Maybe wishing so hard had made a difference.

And then again, maybe there was something else Mrs. Courtney wanted her to see.

Jimmy stirred as she did. His head was on her pillow, his hair was tousled, and his eyes, when they opened, were sleepy. "I didn't hear the alarm."

"Must not be seven yet."

Jimmy rolled away from her and grabbed the alarm clock. It was flashing twelve o'clock. "The electricity must've flickered in the night," he said with a yawn, reaching for his wristwatch on the bedside table.

Jess glanced past Jimmy and out the rain-misted window. It looked to be a cloudy, gray day. She felt a tingle of warning, a tickling of understanding that something wasn't right. Maybe it wasn't early morning, after all.

Jimmy brought the watch to his face, and suddenly he wasn't sluggish anymore. He sat straight up in bed, and turned a wide-awake face to her. "Jess," he said in a low voice, "it's 11:30."

Chapter Eight

"Okay," Jimmy said calmly as they headed for the kitchen, pulling on clothing as they went. "This is not a problem."

"Yeah, right," Jess said. "No problem."

"We'll just eat a little bit later than we'd planned," he said as he slipped his arms into a denim shirt.

"Like eight o'clock tonight?" She was pulling on a sweatshirt, the first piece of clothing she'd grabbed from the first drawer she'd opened. It was huge, and had a Texas Longhorns logo on the front.

Jimmy threw a glance over his shoulder, but didn't stop. "If we have to." He actually gave her a small, reassuring smile.

"All right, Mrs. Courtney or whoever you are," Jess whispered. "Fun's over. I'm ready to go home now."

"What?" Jimmy spun around, closing the last buttons on his shirt.

"Nothing."

He took her hand and pulled her into the kitchen. "You worry too much."

Jimmy looked for all the world as if nothing were wrong. There was no worry in his eyes, in his easy smile. ''Let's get busy," he said as he threw open the refrigerator door. He scooped the turkey off the bottom shelf and deposited it on the counter, where it landed with a resounding thud. Jimmy glanced over his shoulder to Jess, and finally she could see a touch of apprehension in his fading smile.

"Shouldn't it be thawed out by now?" He rapped a knuckle against the firm and frosty plastic wrapping that covered the bird. "It's been in the refrigerator for three days."

Jess reached past Jimmy and tapped the turkey. It was frozen solid. "We could nuke it," she suggested, and Jimmy actually lifted the poultry ice cube and turned toward the microwave before they realized that the turkey was much too big to fit into the microwave that was built in over the stove.

He dropped it on the counter, where it thudded loudly before bouncing and skidding slowly but surely across the counter and toward the pumpkin pies. Jimmy stopped it just in time.

Jess stared at the frozen turkey. There was no possible way that turkey would be cooked today. "Think we could convince everyone that we've turned vegetarian?"

Amazingly, Jimmy laughed. "My dad would force-feed us steak until we changed our minds. Don't you know that vegetarian liberals are ruining the cattle business?"

Jimmy put his arm around her shoulder, and together they stared at the turkey. Hard. As if it would make a difference.

"I've got it," Jimmy said, stepping away from Jess to grab the turkey and return it to the refrigerator. "No problem." That irritating no problem again. "What are you doing?" Jess asked as Jimmy opened the freezer and started digging around.

"Could you move the pies off the counter?" Jimmy asked as he found what he was looking for.

Without asking another question, Jess moved the pies, two at a time, to the kitchen table. Jimmy deposited two huge freezer bags of ground beef on the counter, and then he stepped into the pantry. When he reappeared, his arms were filled with cans of tomatoes and beans. After dumping the cans onto the oak island, he delved into the refrigerator and came out with his hands precariously full of onions and bell peppers.

"What are you doing?" Jess asked again.

Jimmy gave her a quick smile. "I'm making my famous chili."

Chili. For Christmas dinner. Chili and stuffing.

She heard the now familiar flap of the plastic doggie door, and the next thing she knew Rudy was dancing happily at Jimmy's feet.

"And where were you this morning?" Jimmy asked the dog. His voice was accusing, and he stared at Rudy with one narrowed eye. "You never let me sleep late."

Rudy did not appear to be at all repentant.

Jimmy made his famous chili, while Jess found the plates and bowls and silverware and carried them to the dining room. Rudy lay, contented, at Jimmy's feet there beside the stove. When Jimmy said it was time, Jess took the casseroles and the stuffing from the refrigerator. Heat and serve. Thank goodness for Florence, whoever she was.

While he waited for the huge pot of chili to come to a boil, Jimmy took the wrapped gifts from a hall closet and placed them beneath the tree. He warned Rudy several times, with a shake of his finger, not to touch. Rudy actually seemed to understand.

In plenty of time, the chili was simmering, the casseroles were bubbling, and the pan dressing was browning. The house smelled wonderful, fragrant and spicy just like Christmas should smell. Jess made three pitchers of iced tea and set the long dining room tablecomplete with deep bowls and soup spoons.

She was admiring the table when Jimmy sneaked up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. "See," he whispered. "I told you there was no problem."

Jess glanced down at Jimmy's wristwatch. "And it seems we even have twenty minutes to get cleaned up and change clothes."

"I can think of something much more fun to do for the next twenty minutes," he whispered as he kissed the side of her neck, beneath her ear.

She melted against him, falling back as he tightened his arms.

All of a sudden, Jimmy was very still. "Do you hear that?"

"What?"

"Nothing," he said suspiciously. "Nothing at all, not a sound. Where's Rudy?"

Jimmy broke for the living room and the Christmas tree, and Jess was right behind him. All was well, and quiet, and the packages were untouched. The lights on the tree shimmered on gold and silver foil wrapping and red bows, and there had to be fifty packages there, small and large. Jimmy scooped up a single, square package from beneath the tree. "I think maybe you'd better open this one now," he said, placing the package in her hands. There was a twinkle in his eye that told her this was the reason he'd brought her to the living room. He'd never been worried about Rudy, his well-behaved dog.

Jess hesitated for a moment before she slowly and carefully peeled the gold wrapping paper away from a plain brown box. She lifted the top and let the foil wrapping fall to her feet.

As she looked into the tissue-lined box, she let the box lid fall to the floor, where it landed atop the gold paper. Resting on white and lavender tissue paper were the tiniest pair of cowboy boots she'd ever seen, black and white with a touch of red piping at the top. She ran her fingers over the leather, tracing the toe and the little heel. "I didn't know they even made boots this small," she whispered.

At any other time, she would have laughed at such a ridiculous sight, but at the moment it wasn't ridiculous at all. It was a clear and concrete reminder of what was yet to come.

"I know I should have waited, but I saw those in the boot shop and I just couldn't resist."

Jess didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She felt as if she were on the verge of breaking into both tears and laughter. "Dean would be very proud."

"There was this tiny little vest. . . ."

He was silenced when Jess threw her arms around his neck. "They're wonderful, and you're wonderful, and I can't believe I was ever . . ." How much could she safely say? What if she said too much and the spirit who had brought her here decided it was time to send her back?

"I can't believe I ever thought this day would be anything less than perfect."

For a long moment, Jimmy held her. How could she ever bear to be alone again? Already she knew that what she and Jimmy had was much more than physical attraction . . . more even than love. They were connected in a way she'd never believed possible.

A loud crash from the kitchen interrupted her perfect moment. Jimmy dropped his arms, spun away, and ran, and Jess followed slowly behind, studying the boots as she went.

If she'd seen them in the store she would have laughed at such an absurdity, but the sight of these tiny boots actually brought tears to her eyes. Why did this gift touch her heart?

Because it was a sign of so much unknown left to come, of life and love and endless possibilities. Of future Christmases rich with magic and wonder for their children. Goodness, their children.

"Rudy!" Jimmy shouted, and Jess hurried toward the kitchen and the unusual sound of her husband's voice raised in anger.

The black Lab was standing on the kitchen table, pumpkin pie on his nose, and in his mouth, and on his paws. One paw, in fact, was resting in the only pie he hadn't eaten. One empty pie plate had fallen or been pushed to the floor. But for that, Rudy might have eaten all four pies before getting caught.

The dog was looking at Jimmy with an expression that was at first childlike and innocent, and then sheepish. Then the coward leaped from the table, dragging the pie his paw was planted in. It crashed onto the kitchen floor, upside down, and Rudy escaped through the mud room and out the doggie door.

Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. "I don't suppose you fed him this morning," he said, his initial burst of anger fading away.

Jess shook her head.

"Neither did I."

He started to clean up the mess. "I think there are a couple of boxes of Twinkies in the pantry," he said as he tossed the pie plates into the sink. He cast a quick grin over his shoulder. "A benefit of having a pregnant wife around. We could cut them into thirds and put toothpicks in them and hope no one notices."

It was ridiculous, so ridiculous that Jess began to laugh. With one little boot in each hand, she threw her arms around Jimmy's neck and laughed so hard he had to hold her up.

"You're hysterical," he accused softly.

He released her slowly as the laughter died, and she pulled away to look into his face. "You're wonderful," she whispered. "Perfect, in fact."

Jimmy raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but he smiled and moved in close. "Would you care to put that in writing? I can think of several times in the past three years an affidavit like that would've come in handy."

"Do I not tell you often enough that you're perfect?"

"Not nearly often enough," Jimmy said with an exaggerated drawl. Jess raised up on her tiptoes and kissed Jimmy lightly. They came together so naturally, so easily.

"Merry Christmas, sugar," he whispered as she drew away.

"How much time did you say we have?" she asked breathlessly as he pulled his mouth from hers.

She would never get enough of him, never tire of the way his lips came to hers, the way her body seemed to awaken when he touched her.

His hands slipped beneath the sweatshirt. "Six weeks pregnant, and you're already borrowing my clothes."

"Do you mind?"

The smile he gave her as he lifted her off her feet was brilliant. "Are you kidding? I like it, I love it, you look better in that sweatshirt than I ever did or ever will."

The doorbell rang, and they both jumped.

"They're early," Jimmy said, just a heartbeat behind Jess.

Chapter Nine

Jess's father said grace, throwing in phrases like "at least we won't starve" and "this bountiful and unusual holiday meal." She cringed, and beneath the table Jimmy squeezed her hand.

It was overwhelming and humbling and perhaps a little frightening to sit at the table with both families, and Jess had already decided that she was better off keeping her mouth shut as much as possible.

Her parents had changed little, physically and emotionally. They'd argued endlessly since stepping through the front door, about the trip and the airport van, the method of packing the Christmas presents they'd brought to add to the mountain under the tree, and even the weather. Her mother had all but groaned at the sight of the chili, but she hadn't said anything, since Jimmy had been right there.

Marty looked great. Goodness, she'd matured in three short years. Jess's little sister was prettier than ever, and didn't seem to be indulging in any singular fashion revolution at the moment. She was obviously happya fact Jess attributed to the attentive and handsome man, Winston Conrad, who sat at Marty's right. Peter was seated between his two kids, Matthew and Heather. From what she'd overheard of their conversation, Jess figured he'd collected them early this morning, after they'd celebrated Christmas with their mother and new stepfather. He looked tired, but happy to be sitting between his kids.

Jimmy's family was . . . well, what had she expected? The brothers were fascinating. Five men, all very much like Jimmy and still each his own man. If you lined the six of them up you'd know they were brothers. The strength of their features were similar, and they all were wide in the shoulders and long legged.

That aside, Frank was the tallest by better than an inch, and Luke had electric blue eyes, and Robbie was the only true blond. John was the shortest of the six, and still he stood at least six feet tall. And Will, goodness, Will was more beautiful even than Jimmy.

Will and Frank had brought their wives, pretty and intelligent women, both of them. Will and Christine had been married three months, Frank and Sarah six.

The three youngest Blue brothers were happily single, though Jess suspected they wouldn't stay single for long if there were any more smart and pretty women in Texas.

Ginny was the sole Blue daughter, the youngest child, and she was clearly the darling of the bunch. Ginny Blue was a stunning dark-haired girl with clear gray eyes so much like Jimmy's it hurt Jess to look at them.

Studying Jimmy's brothers once again, Jess felt a pang of pity for the man Ginny would one day bring home.

His parents, Clara and Rance Blue, were wonderful people, she knew already. Rance had expressed delight in finding his son's chili was being served for supper, and Clara had laughed out loud as she'd taken her seat. You could tell, by the way they looked at each other and touched . . . a hand on an arm or a shoulder so easily . . . that they loved each other, still.

It was no wonder Jimmy had grown up so beautifully.

She couldn't help but wonder if she and Jimmy could stay so much in love as the years passed . . . and then she knew they would.

Whenever she'd pictured her own future, alone in her apartment during a long, lonely night, she'd never imagined anything quite like this. A child in the distant future, maybe, she'd conceded. Perhaps two. A boy and a girl, like Peter.

But she looked at the big, beautiful Blue family, and wondered how many she and Jimmy would decide to have. Two would be manageable. Seven would be constant turmoil. Maybe they'd settle for a number in between.

She dipped into Jimmy's "famous chili" and brought a spoonful to her mouth. The spiciness surprised her, and her eyes watered as she reached for her iced tea to cool the burn in her throat.

"Did I make it too hot?" Jimmy asked as Jess drained half her glass.

She shook her head, but her eyes continued to water. Glancing around the table as inconspicuously as possible, she saw that his family was having no trouble at all eating the chili, but her family was quickly becoming vegetarians.

It was chaotic, but fun, in an odd way. Her family filled up on dressing and vegetables, and Jimmy's family chowed down on the chili. No one laughed too loudly or long when dessertfruit salad and quartered Twinkieswas served. Jess was ready to admit that this was a good day, in spite of the early disasters.

And it was a good day, if you liked chaos.

Seven people in the kitchen made short work of the cleanup, and only three dishes were broken.

Matthew and Heather discovered Rudy, and Heather discovered that she fit quite nicely through the doggie door. Matthew was not so lucky. He got stuck on his first attempt. It took one Lennox and three Blues to get him unstuck.

Luke and Robbie, two grown men, wrestled on the great room floor like a couple of two-year-olds, their six-foot-plus bodies rolling this way and that, crashing into furniture and the brick fireplace. They didn't stop until their mother left the kitchen to pop them each on the head with a damp dish towel, as she reminded them that they were not at home.

When they finally gathered around the tree and the mountain of gifts, there was soft laughter and good-natured teasing all around. Matthew and Heather sat on the floor with a surprisingly calm Rudy between them, and Jess and Jimmy shared their wide chair.

What followed was more chaos. Wrapping paper flew, while sweaters and jewelry and toysplaythings for the kids and for the menwere held high for all to see. Matthew got a football, and it was passed around the room easily, over heads and around furniture. Heather got a doll that criedand cry it did.

About the time the last package was unwrapped, John made his way to the stereo, stepping carefully over discarded paper and boxes, to put in Jimmy's Christmas CD. When he punched the start button he was wearing a devilish smile. Rudy howled. Three notes hadn't played before Jimmy told his brother to shut it off.

John, who was surely aware of Jimmy's aversion to listening to himself sing, simply leaned against the wall and grinned widely, crossing one booted ankle over the other.

Jimmy smiled down at Jess, and tightened the arm around her shoulder. ''See?" he said softly. "Everything's great. Everybody's happy. You worried yourself for nothing."

Rudy was howling softly, singing along as always. Matthew and Heather were already arguing over a contested toy, and Ginny was loudly defending a new sweater Robbie called gaudy. She ended the argument with the smack of an empty box on her brother's head.

"Sometimes I worry too much, don't I?"

Jimmy nodded. "Sometimes."

"It's a waste of time, isn't it?"

"Usually."

She didn't want to be like her mother. Always a crisis, always a disaster. So everything wasn't perfect. Perfection was overrated, anyway.

John turned up the volume. So did Rudy.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Jimmy said as he slipped his arm from her shoulder, "I have to go kick my little brother's butt."

At least John had the good sense to lead his big brother outside for their fun. The remaining Blue brothers followed, taking the two newest members of the family, Sarah and Christine, with them. Then Peter and the kids and Ginny left the room, with Marty and Winston close behind. Rance shook his head in disgust as he left the room, but he was smiling brightly. Jess's dad gave her a grin as he left the room.

Leaving Jess and her mother and Jimmy's mother to clean up the mess.

The Christmas album was still playing, Jimmy's beautiful voice filling every corner of the room. The women picked up shredded wrapping paper and stuffed it into plastic garbage bags, checking carefully to see that no small gift was hidden in the trash. Before long, Jess could actually see the carpet again.

"I can't stand it," Jess's mother said to Clara. "She's never going to tell us."

Jess lifted her head cautiously. They were both looking at her, waiting. "Who's never going to tell you what?" she asked suspiciously. They couldn't possibly know about the baby.

Her mother sighed. Clara smiled. Caught.

"How did you find out?" Jess dropped a handful of gold-foil wrapping paper onto the floor. "Did Jimmy tell you?"

Clara shook her head. "Not intentionally, in any case. He's been treating you all day as if you might break. He's always loved you madly, Jess, but he's never mollycoddled you quite like this before." "Between that and your radiant glow," Jess's mother added, "we both knew before dinner was done."

"Glow?"

Both women nodded, smiling knowingly.

"Who else knows?"

The two mothers shared a cryptic glance. "Oh, no one else, I don't suppose," Clara said. "Men can be blind when it suits them."

They didn't seem hurt or angry, not in the least. Matthew burst into the room to grab his new football. "We decided on a game instead of a fight," he said breathlessly as he scooped it from the floor.

With the men all occupied, the talk turned to baby names and breast-feeding and how difficult it would be to juggle a baby and Jimmy's schedule. It took Jess and Clara a good fifteen minutes to convince Jess's mother that somehow they would work it out. In spite of a few anxious moments, it was a discussion much more comfortable than Jess had imagined was possible.

For the first time Jess understood her mother a little. She wanted everything to be flawless for this child, and for the children who would come later. She wanted their Christmases to be wonderful, perfect, as magical as this one. She wanted their lives to be perfect. That was all her mother had wanted for her children. Sally Lennox just had a tendency to get caught up in the details, instead of looking at the big picture.

It was a good while later before the game was finished and a hungry crew came in looking for hot chocolate and soft drinks and leftover chili. Jimmy plopped down in the wide chair with Jess, put his arm around her, and pulled her close.

"You smell," she said softly, but she didn't move away.

"I've been playing football, darlin'. What do you expect?"

Three of the Blue boys made themselves comfortable in front of the television and found the Aloha Bowl in progress. Jimmy scooped up the remote from the table close at hand, and changed the channel. Miracle on 34th Street was just coming on.

Three handsome but extremely irritated faces turned their way.

"There's a TV in the master bedroom," Jimmy said with a smile. "If you want to watch football you'll have to do it in there, because this is Jess's favorite Christmas movie."

"Whipped," Luke whispered loudly and with a wicked smile as he walked past on his way to the bedroom with John and Robbie. Will and his wife sat on the couch, and in just a few minutes they were joined by Peter and his kids. Heather was asleep in a matter of minutes. Jimmy's mother and father sat side by side, and Jess's folks were right behind them.

All was quiet, but for the movie that was playing. Jess looked around the crowded room. Everyone was exhausted, drowsy, and happy. In the background she heard one of Jimmy's brothers shouting, maybe cheering, at the bedroom TV.

Rudy pattered into the room, settled himself at Jimmy's feet, and closed his eyes.

Jess was getting pretty tired, herself. All of a sudden she could hardly keep her eyes open. She leaned her head against Jimmy's shoulder.

When she woke up again she wouldn't be here. She knew it, as her eyes drifted closed. Where would she wake up? In another future, or in the time where she belonged? She didn't want to leave Jimmy, but . . .

What had their wedding been like? She didn't remember, because she hadn't been there . . . yet. When had they first made love? There were so many memories still to make, and she didn't want to miss a minute of it.

Jess forced her eyes open. Jimmy's eyes were on the TV, but they drooped almost as badly as hers did. It had been a hectic day.

"Jimmy?"

He looked down at her.

"It has been a good day, hasn't it?"

He nodded slightly, and smiled before pulling her head back to his shoulder.

Jess turned her face up. "I love you, Blue."

He kissed her, a soft and all too brief touch of his mouth to hers, and when he returned her head to his shoulder, she fell immediately into a deep sleep.

Chapter Ten

The unmistakable music of Miracle on 34th Street was playing in the background, intruding into Jess's sleep even though she wasn't quite ready to wake up. She smiled sleepily at the thought that Jimmy would actually turn off a football game to watch the holiday classic with her. She pulled the quilt to her chin, and lifted her head slowly.

She wasn't sitting in that wide chair with Jimmy, her family and his all around. It was Christmas morning, and she was alone in her apartment, curled up on the chair where she'd fallen asleep last night.

"All a dream," she whispered to herself, achingly disappointed.

The most vivid and real dreamdreamsshe'd ever experienced.

She shook it off and made herself leave the chair. Her legs wanted to cramp after being twisted beneath her all night, and the chill of bare feet against a cold floor didn't add to her comfort one bit. Coffee, an entire pot to herself, that was what she needed.

She started the coffee, and then she glared at Mrs. Courtney's perfectly innocent-looking cookies for a moment before tossing the entire plate into the trash. There was definitely something in those gingerbread men that didn't belong there.

Before the coffee was ready, the phone rang. It was her mother, of course, and Jess smiled at the memory of the dream, of her conversation with her mother about babies and motherhood.

There was a crisis already, of course. Marty had come home with a nose ring and a long-haired guy who called himself Snake. Matthew had decided, just that morning, that he was allergic to turkey, and only pizza would do for Christmas dinner. Little Heather was crying because her new doll's dress was blue, and she wanted pink.

When her mother finished talking, with a sigh and a sniffle, Jess assured her that everything would be fine. Marty was going to turn out to be a fine young woman, and this Christmas and the next and all the ones to follow were going to be wonderful, each in its own, unpredictable way. And for the first time in a very long time, she believed it.

After she said a long-distance "Merry Christmas" to every member of her familyand SnakeJess actually regretted her decision to spend this Christmas alone. So the holidays at the Lennox house weren't perfect. Maybe they weren't supposed to be.

She sat at the table with her coffee and the packages under her little tree. She sipped for a while, toying with the taped end of Lorraine's package before opening it, carefully peeling off the Santa wrapping paper and lifting the lid of the small box to reveal an assortment of Christmas jewelry. A pin in the shape of a red-nosed reindeer, dangling Christmas-tree earrings, and a thin red-and-green beaded hairclip. Festive holiday costume jewelry of the sort that Lorraine always wore and Jess never did. They weren't dazzling and they certainly weren't sensible. They were simplyfun.

The present from her mother and father had arrived in the mail two weeks ago. Knowing pretty much what to expect, Jess hadn't been tempted even once in those two weeks to open the gift early. But now she slid it slowly across the table and very neatly opened her mother's carefully wrapped package.

It was, of course, a box from her mother's favorite department store. Every year Jess received clothing from her parents, apparel that was too bright and too young and usually the wrong size. Too big one year, too small the next. There was a drawer full of those outfits in her dresser, outfits she didn't dare dispose of. Sure as she did, her mother would arrive for a surprise visit and demand to see whatever Jess had just given or thrown away.

She lifted the box, curious as to what she might find, and folded back the tissue paper to reveal a green sweater flecked with gold. Not exactly like the one she'd dreamed about, but so close it gave her a chill. She lifted the sweater carefully, revealing the short matching skirt.

"Weird," she whispered.

She held the sweater close to her chest. Coincidence, that was all.

Maybe it was just coincidence, but as she held the sweater against her flannel pj's and remembered the dream, the idea of spending Christmas day alone was dreadfully unappealing. Depressing, even. She was showered and dressed in half an hour. For once, the bright clothing her mother had chosen actually fit. Another omen? Jess smiled at that thought as she fastened the reindeer pin to her chest and slipped on the Christmas-tree earrings and secured one section of her unruly hair with the beaded clip.

She was just doing Jimmy a favor, that was all. Pretending to be his girlfriend for a couple of hours to keep his overbearing mother off his back was the least she could do for a friend. Jess grabbed her coat and left the too small, too quiet apartment.

It was another cold day, but the sun was shining and the skies were clear and bright. Jess was heading for her car when she heard raised voices from around the corner.

"I can't believe you have the nerve to show up with a puppy!" The high-pitched voice stopped Jess in her tracks. "We live in an apartment, and Scott is only two years old. A dog would just be something else for me to take care of, and you know it!"

"Scott will love" a deep male voice began.

"No!"

"But what am I supposed to do with"

"Get rid of it!"

Jess stepped to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. She recognized the couple from the fourth floor, Tom and Sharon Hall. They were both very nice, usually, and they had the cutest little boy. They had recently separated, she thought.

Tom was holding, in his arms, a little ball of black fur that cuddled against him for warmth. There was a red bow around the dog's neck that was almost as large as it was. The puppy saw Jess first, and he lifted his head, fastening black eyes on her.

Tom and Sharon noticed her at the same time.

"Merry Christmas," Jess said with a sheepish smile. "I didn't mean to intrude, but I couldn't help"

"See what you've done?" Sharon snapped at Tom. "Making a scene in front of the neighbors."

Tom turned a haggard face to Jess, and she could see so much in his distressed expression. He missed his kid; he missed his wife. The three of them belonged together, especially today.

"Cute dog," Jess said with a grin.

"You want it?" Sharon Hall snapped. "I am not"

"Yes," Jess interrupted. "Actually, I do. I have a friend who would love a puppy for Christmas."

Tom gratefully handed the furball to Jess, and the tension was immediately defused. The puppy was two months old, Tom told her, and he was half black Lab and half German shepherd. Jess offered to pay, but the Halls were so grateful to have this particular disagreement taken care of, they wouldn't hear of it.

Jess carried the puppy to her car, sheltering him from the wind and searching for a clue. All little black puppies looked alike, but if Jimmy named him Rudy . . .

She shook her head at the impossible idea.

With the map that was still in her glove compartment, Jess had no trouble finding her way to Jimmy's ranch house. Of course the route was familiar. She'd traveled this section of the interstate many times, and once she was off the interstate, well, all these back roads looked alike, didn't they? But when she pulled into the driveway, her heart skipped a beat. A circular drive, a picture window, double doors. In her dream it had been nighttime, so the details were not exactly the same, but there was no mistaking the similarities.

Had Lorraine, after the barbecue, described the house to Jess in such detail, and she'd just forgotten? Had those details been planted in the back of her mind?

It was the only reasonable conclusion.

She sat in the driveway for a few long minutes, starting at the house. Had she come here all because of a dream? How silly. How stupid! A dream of a ghostly figure telling her to shape her own future, and then showing her what might be ahead, and then Jess did something completely impulsive and out of character.

But she had to know, and besides . . . there was no room for a dog in her apartment.

Jess scooped the ball of fur off the passenger seat, and gathered what little strength she had left. The worst thing that could happen was that she'd make a complete fool of herself in front of Jimmy Blue and his family.

Jimmy opened the door so quickly after her knock, she wondered if he'd been watching as she sat in the car trying to decide if this was insane or simply stupid.

No man had a right to look so good in jeans and a T-shirt that he took a woman's breath away. She had to remind herself that this man was not her husband; he was just a nice guy who'd asked her out a few times. Still, she had an incredible urge to tell Jimmy she loved him and then kiss him right here in the doorway.

''Hi," she said instead.

He stepped back and invited her in, and Jess stepped into her dream. The hat rack in the hallway, the entrance to the great room, the stone fireplace complete with blazing flames. There were unwrapped packages everywhere, and an almost bare tree at one end of the room.

"The tree should be in front of the window," Jess whispered.

"Good idea."

Her eyes fell on the chair, their chair, which was situated in the middle of the room.

"Great chair," she said softly.

"Yeah. At the furniture store where I got it, they called it a chair and a half," he said just a little bit too quickly. "They just delivered it last week. It's really comfortable. You should try it out."

"I will." Her eyes scanned the room, the wrapping paper and boxes, tissue paper, ornaments and lights.

"It's a mess," Jimmy apologized. "My family doesn't get here until this afternoon, and I . . ." He stopped speaking when she looked squarely at him. "I didn't really think you'd come," he finished softly.

"I didn't either," she admitted.

The puppy squirmed, and she handed the black ball of fur with the big red bow to Jimmy. "Merry Christmas, Blue. I hope you like dogs."

His grin answered her. "I love dogs. I've been meaning to get one ever since I bought this place, but I haven't really had the time"

"Name him," Jess interrupted. It was suddenly important. If her dream had been a sign, or a gift, if it had somehow been a real glimpse into the future . . .

"When I was a kid, I had a great dog named Boomer," Jimmy said, studying the dog's face as if trying to decide if the name fit. Jess's heart sank.

"Boomer." She slipped off her coat and hung it on the rack beside Jimmy's black hat. "That's a good dog name, I guess."

When Jess turned around, Jimmy was staring at her, taking in the Christmas outfit, from the sparkling sweater to the short skirt. "But I don't think he's a Boomer. He brought you here on Christmas day, so I think maybe I should call him . . ." His eyes fastened on the pin Lorraine had given her. "Rudolph."

"Rudolph," Jess whispered, barely able to find her voice.

"Well." Jimmy smiled. "That's a lot of name for a little dog. Maybe I'll just call him Rudy."

"Rudy," she repeated.

Jimmy looked her up and down again. "You look"he shook his head slowly"really great, Jess."

Once they had Rudy settled on an old blanket before the fireplace, Jess helped Jimmy move and decorate the tree and wrap the packages. One of the few packages that was already wrapped had her name on it, and Jimmy added it to the mound under the tree. It was small, almost certainly a jewelry box of some sort.

He caught her watching him. "What I got you's not nearly as good as a dog," he said with a grin.

There was an air of awkwardness between them. Jimmy was careful not to actually touch her. The way she'd always acted in the past, he was probably afraid he would scare her away. Still, there were times as they strung the lights and stretched for those hard-to-reach places on the tree that their hands touched. No matter how hard they tried to ignore it, the magic was there.

Jess wasn't sure exactly what to do next. If she jumped Jimmy and told him she'd visited the future in a dream and they were meant to be together, he'd surely think she was a flake. She could play it safe and wait for him to make the first move, but so far he'd been a perfect gentleman, dammit.

Of course, she'd been the one to make it clear all along that she didn't date musicians, that she had no interest in him at all. He probably thought she was just doing the favor he'd asked of her, and would run in a heartbeat if he showed any romantic interest.

She had no one to blame for this predicament but herself.

It was almost time for his family to arrive when the phone rang. The Blues were stuck in Atlanta for two more hours due to some strange fog that had moved in unexpectedly. Strange fog. Jess glanced out of the windows to the clear skies and mouthed a silent thank-you to Mrs. Courtney. A little more time was just what she needed.

While Jimmy placed the last of the packages under the tree,Jess stepped into the entryway. Last night's mistletoe was still in her pocket, and she slipped her hand into the pocket of her heavy coat to retrieve it.

"Leaving already?" She spun around to find Jimmy watching her from just inside the great room. He looked disappointed, but not surprised. He expected the worst from her, still.

"It's just two hours, Jess. I promise I'll behave myself."

Jess shook her head, and took Jimmy's hat from the peg beside her coat. While he watched, she slipped the mistletoe securely into the leather band, stepped forward, and placed the hat on his head.

"What's this?" Jimmy asked with a smile, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her hesitantly close.

"Tradition," Jess said, raising up on her toes. The kiss began like the one last night at the Christmas party. Soft, tender, a delicate study of lips. Jess parted her lips, flicked her tongue over Jimmy's bottom lip, and in a heartbeat everything changed.

She pushed his hat back, and it fell to the floor. He kissed her so deep and so hard her heart fluttered in her chest. And then Jimmy pulled his lips from hers.

"Maybe I don't want you to behave yourself," she whispered against his mouth. "I know," she added before he could say a word, "that I just contradicted everything I've ever said about . . . about us. I was afraid, I guess. Afraid to believe in anything. Face it, Blue, you can have any girl you want."

"I want you."

"Are you sure?" Dreams were one thing, but this was real. Real, and for keeps. "Think about it. Any woman in the world, Young, old, gorgeous, rich . . ."

"I'm not in love with any other woman in the world, I'm in love with you," Jimmy interrupted impatiently, and she watched the dismay steal over his face. "Too fast," he mumbled beneath his breath. "You're not going to bolt now, are you?" He grabbed her wrist and held her gently in place, so she couldn't bolt even if she wanted to. "I'll take it back, if you want."

Jess shook her head slowly. "You can't take it back. It's too late."

"Too late," he repeated as he released her wrist and backed away a single step.

Now she could run, if she wanted to. She could run and hide and spend the rest of her life alone.

Jess stepped toward Jimmy and lifted her lips to his. "You can't ever take it back." She kissed him lightly, and his immediate response was to take her face in his hands and deepen the kiss.

She slipped her hands around his waist and held him tight, to steal his warmth, to feel his body close to hers . . . so she wouldn't fall. Eventually, they fell to the floor together.

Jess wantedneededto touch Jimmy, to hold him. Her hands danced over his side, her fingers studied his neck, her thigh brushed his as she lifted her leg to wrap it around his. And the kiss wouldn't end. She wouldn't allow it.

She rolled Jimmy onto his back, raked her fingers through his hair, and brought her mouth almost away from his. Her tongue flicked over his mouth; her lips brushed his lightly. He settled his big hands on her hips, and with a twist and a sway of his long body he was above her again.

Somehow they ended up beside the tree. Red and green lights and an errant shaft of light from the window lit Jimmy's face for her, but nothing, not even the strange light, could make him seem anything less than very real.

Unless she was very mistaken, they were about to initiate a new Christmas tradition.

"Blue?" she whispered when he drew his mouth from hers to kiss the column of her throat.

He answered her by slipping his hand slowly beneath her sweater.

"I've changed my mind."

His hand stilled. "What?"

"About dating musicians." She hooked her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

There was no more awkwardness, no indecision between them. Jimmy began to pull his lips away, then raked his mouth indolently across hers. "What made you change your mind?"

She recalled both dreams in great detail, the good and the bad of their possible futures. And then she remembered that one date she'd always sworn to everyoneJimmy and Lorraine and herselfwas not a date. The way Jimmy had looked at her that night, the way he had laughed, and the warm and natural feel of his hand in hers. She'd fallen in love with him that night, and she'd spent months denying it.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked a second time.

Jess threaded her fingers through his dark hair and pulled his mouth to hers. "You did, Blue," she whispered as they came together. "You did."