Duncan glanced up at the alcove archway
then back Brooke's direction. A hint of a true smile crossed his mouth. "Just
my luck. Stuck beneath the mistletoe with the trash."
Brooke couldn't help it. She laughed, aloud and full-bodied
and the temptation grew. And grew. But she wouldn't give in. She wouldn't.
That didn't mean she wouldn't enjoy the moment. Or take it a bit further
to see what else Duncan might reveal.
Learning more about him couldn't hurt
in her quest to change his mind about Christmas. Especially now that
he'd let slip just enough
to truly rouse her curiosity. "You missed it earlier. Quite a show."
"Here?" He gestured overhead. "Lydia
catch another unsuspecting victim?"
Brooke stayed where she was, her fingers
wrapped around the figurine. "JJ."
His eyes widened, flashed golden in
the light. "She
caught Jay?"
"Not Lydia," Brooke answered, shaking her head. "Sally."
She watched a dozen thoughts cross his mind, the implications
of his friend and her friend and where that kiss might or might not lead.
"Wow," he finally said, set the trash bag at
his feet, parked a hand at his waist. The other rubbed at the back of
his neck. "That surprises me. About JJ."
"Why?" Her interest peaked. "He was a good
sport about it. So was Sally. Better than I think I would've been," she
added, immediately regretting the admission when the doubting Thomas
look in his eyes told her he planned to change the conversational direction.
He crossed his arms and stayed where
he was, under the mistletoe, as if his bold defiance of tradition presented
a challenge
to her Christmas spirit. "You? Miss Merry Christmas? Not a good
sport?"
She wouldn't let his teasing get to
her. But she now knew she could get to him by being honest. She stroked
the figurine again. "I'm
not big on public displays. When it comes to certain things."
"Like kissing?"
She nodded, took her honesty further. "At
least a kiss like that."
One of Duncan's eyebrows went up. "Oh
yeah?"
Oh yeah. That kiss had moved her. She couldn't tell him
how much or in what ways. Wasn't even ready to make that admission to
herself.
The admission that she'd thought of him, Duncan. Had wanted
to kiss him, Duncan.
No. She wasn't ready to make that admission
at all. "I
guess you'd have to ask one of them about oh yeah. What I don't understand,
though, is why JJ kissing Sally would surprise you."
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "He's
always been a one woman kinda guy."
This time she took her honesty to the
limit. "So.
Why can't Sally be that woman?"
He regarded her then, intently, intimately, looking at
her with those hooded bird of prey eyes. The dim light gave that look
a quality that had Brooke wanting to take a step back almost as much
as she wanted to take one forward, to feel that gaze up close, inches
away, focused and clear and certain in its purpose.
He glanced down to the floor, then back
up, shoved his fists in his pockets and said, "I thought you were
that woman."
She knew he'd thought that because JJ had thought that.
Perhaps until as recently as tonight. But JJ didn't think that any more.
And Duncan needed to know the truth. She needed him to know the truth.
"JJ and I are good friends," she said. "We've
dated. A few times. We both knew that was as far as it was going to go.
He needs a go-getter. Like Sally. And I need . . . "
She let the thought trail, stroked a finger over the figurine.
This was an area she wasn't ready to face, let alone discuss with Duncan
Cox.
"You like that?"
At his question, she looked up. He nodded
toward the figure. She smiled. "I love it. It's perfect. The best
second day of Christmas I could have imagined."
He seemed to think a moment, to consider what had passed,
to dwell on her words, as if trying to understand or make sense of the
same type of musings that had her tied up in knots. As if waiting to
speak until he ordered his thoughts.
She moved to the side of the alcove, closer to where he
stood while avoiding where he stood. She wanted, needed to be close when
he said what was on his mind. Wanted, needed to see his eyes.
He kept them on the figurine. "That
was a public display. Finding that in your stocking."
"It wasn't so bad. You'd prepared me. The crowd was
a friendly one," she teasingly said. "And after yesterday's
pear, I had an idea it would be something simple that I wouldn't mind
sharing."
She balanced the birds in her palm,
concentrated on them as well as her thoughts. "There are other
things that would be harder in public."
"Like a kiss."
They were back to that. She'd thought talking of that type
of intimacy with Duncan would make her uneasy. But strangely he was comfortable
to talk to.
She found it wasn't hard at all to raise
her eyes to his. "Yes.
Like a kiss."
After a long thoughtful moment, his
eyes flared, darkened, grew powerful in their regard. "Or like singing?" he
finally asked.
How was she supposed to inhale when
he looked at her that way with those eyes? Those coffee cocoa dangerously
perceptive eyes. "I
don't sing in public."
"You sing in private. In the mornings. When you shower," he
said, his voice a low private whisper by the time the last of the words
escaped.
"You hear that? Me? Singing?" Please
say no. Please say no.
But he nodded. And said, "Yes.
I hear you singing."
She ignored her stiff shoulders, her
tight jaw, the ceramic lines of the tiny figurine cutting into her
fingers and strove for nonchalance. "Isn't
that where people are supposed to sing? In the shower?"
"I don't," he answered.
And, after her breath took flight at
the end of a long sigh, she managed, "I know."
"I wondered. About that. If you
realized."
What? That they were both wet and naked
virtually the same time each day? How could she be human and female
and not realize? She
smoothed back her ponytail. "Sure. The pipes are old. I hear them.
I hear the floor creak under the tub. Or I guess I hear the tub creak
over my ceiling."
When he stepped away from the archway, his toe caught the
corner of the trash bag. Bottles clinked and cans clattered on the short
slide across the floor. The air in the alcove grew warm and close and
the scent of the spruce needles pungent.
His shoulders were broad, his body fit and she licked her
lips. He drew his hands from his pockets. His steps brought him close
and she trembled. The tiny Christmas candles glittered off the lightest
strands in his hair, caught sparks of light and heat in his eyes.
Oh, God. She brought clenched fists to her chest, backed
into the wall beside the stockings.
He was taller than she'd thought, he was leaner than she'd
realized, he was closer than she'd ever thought he would be. And he knew
about her showers.
She could smell him now. No imagined steam, no conjured
soapy scent. But male skin heated by arousal. Cloth bearing more of the
same as he raised both hands to either side of her head, skated his palms
lightly over her hair, the same way she did so often, back over her ears
and down her nape as if he'd watched her and knew the gesture.
Then he leaned forward, his body still
a foot from hers, and touched his lips to her ear. "I like your hair. The way you
touch it." He inhaled slowly, an excruciatingly drawn-out intake
of air. "And I like the way it smells. I'd wondered about that.
After hearing you shower."
A shiver stole through her, from his warm breath on her
ear, from his words, from the laying bare of his imagination. Arousal
tightened her breasts, weakened her knees, stirred her body between.
She caught back the whimper, the barest gasp at the back of her throat,
closed her eyes and lifted her chin.
He could have her. All of her. She was that aroused. And
that frightened by a vulnerability that wasn't what she was used to feeling,
didn't know how to fight.
Her skin burned beneath layers of knit dress and lace hose.
Her muscles ached from the reflexive clenching and easing that came with
each inch he leaned closer, each inch he halted, each inch he leaned
in.
His body touched hers, barely, his chest grazed her breasts,
barely, his thighs bracketed hers, barely. His shoulders rose; his stomach
pressed into her belly. Fully.
He was aroused as well.
She opened her eyes, looked into his, watched his pupils
react as his hands left her hair to skim lightly down her neck. His palms
grazed her shoulders, his thumbs pressed into her collarbone and her
pulse jumped.
He felt it. She knew that by his eyes, by the flare of
his nostrils, by the breath that fanned warm against her skin before
his lips touched her cheekbone, traveled to her ear, worked lower. A
wisp of air hissed from between her teeth.
He moved his hands down her arms, curled
his fingers easily around her biceps, nuzzled his way from her ear
to her shoulder. "I
like the smell of your neck."
She raised her chin to give him better access, wanting
to say something in return, but she couldn't find the words, couldn't
voice the compliment she so wanted to return.
He smelled the way she loved a man to smell. His hair clean,
sifting through her fingers as she held his head close. His face lightly
spiced, nicely rough as his end of the day beard grazed her jawline.
His hands were warm where they held her arms, his thighs
hard against her hips. But it was the center of his body searing the
center of hers that was her focus.
She could barely breathe.
He seemed to sense her dwindling control, lifted his head.
Her neck cooled in his absence. But she found that the heat in his eyes
warmed her through.
"I like the way your eyes flash," he said. "I
like to hear you laugh."
Oh, God. Oh, God. What was happening here? Her body was
betraying her, responding to this man she didn't know at all yet sensed
she had known forever. She found him attractive, yes. Admired his dedication,
of course.
And the fact that she was even attempting to inject logic
into this moment proved how far gone she was.
So she gave up, gave in, raised up on tip-toes to better
align his arousal with hers. He hissed. She whimpered, brought her arms
around his neck and let him know he was welcome.
Nothing else mattered at this moment but his body and her
body and if he didn't put his mouth on hers and kiss her soon she was
going to die.
So she kissed him. |
