Authors: Vicki Lewis Thompson
L
ooking more like he was leading her to the gallows than into a local pub, Ethan smothered a smile and held the door open for Lark, then waited for her to pass through before following her inside. He caught a whiff of something spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and vanilla, and felt his groin tighten. Honestly,
only
she could smell like a damned pastry and he'd find it a turn-on.
She picked her way through the lunch crowd and found a spot at a bar in the back, then slid her lush rear end onto a stool. A bit of the tension eased out of her spine, but it still hovered around her shoulders like a shadow she couldn't shake.
He empathized.
Odd that the source of his tension was the remedy, as well.
Just being around her wound him up, but it offered a bizarre sort of release, like he could suddenly let go of breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
He settled onto the stool beside her and signaled for the bartender, then ordered a shot of Jameson.
“Hitting the Irish this early?” she asked, a faint twinkle in her lovely blue eyes.
He shrugged. “Your sincerely misguided book hit the
New York Times
best-sellers list,” he drawled. “We're celebrating. What are you having?”
She shot him a slightly exasperated look, one that somehow managed to be both sexy and endearing. “âSincerely misguided,'” she repeated. “So I'm wrong, but since I believe it, you're willing to forgive me for my opinion?” She chuckled darkly and glanced at the bartender. “Give me a Jameson as well, but make it a double. I think I'm going to need it for this particular conversation,” she added, a grim undertone shading her voice.
“Are you sure you want to do that? You know you can't hold your liquor.”
She lifted her adorable chin. “I can hold it just fine, thank you.”
He winced significantly. “Sincerely misguided,” he repeated. “It's a theme with you, isn't it? Remember that I warned you when you start coming on to me.”
She snorted. “Sure. Right.”
“Last year, Minneapolis,” he reminded her, bringing the tumbler to his lips.
She sucked in a small gasp and glared at him. “That was a combination of new medication and alcohol,” she hissed. “And I wasn't coming on to you, dammit. I was a little unsteady on my feet.”
“Yes, you were,” he remarked, his lips twitching. “You were all over me.”
Her soft breast against his side, her head on his shoulder, her arm around his waist as he'd helped her walk back from the hotel bar to her room.
It had been an excruciating exercise in restraint, and they both knew he could have very easily taken advantage of her. He hadn't, of course, because when the time finally came for him and Ms. Anti-Claus to share skin on a mattress, he wanted her to be fully aware of what they were doing. He wanted her to want him, to make the
deliberate
choice, not one compromised by a new migraine medication and tequila.
She peered at him, squinting thoughtfully as though she were perplexed. “How do you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Carry around that
massive
ego. It's a miracle the weight of it doesn't cripple you.”
He smiled. “Lift with your knees,” he said, winking at her. “That's the trick.”
She chuckled softly and rolled her eyes, slid a slim finger down the side of her glass. “I knew there had to be one.”
“So how have you been?” he asked. “I'm assuming writing and promoting the book has taken up a great deal of your time.”
“It has,” she admitted. She took a sip of her whiskey and rolled it around on her tongue, savoring the flavor. “But in a good way, you know? I've logged less hours at the clinic this year, but I'm okay with that.”
Because her message was more important. Because she believed what she said. It wasn't merely a talking point for her. She was genuinely passionate about protecting children, about preventing the heartache and pain she'd hinted at in her book.
Yes, he'd read it.
Theoretically so that he'd be able to refute it. But it had actually been out of blatant curiosity and the desire to know more about her. He wondered if she knew the insights she'd provided, if she was even aware of how much of herself she'd inadvertently left on the page. Probably not.
“What about you?” she wanted to know. “How's your year been?”
“Most recently, quite hellish,” he told her with a pointed smirk.
“What?” she asked innocently. “But I thought all PR was good PR...”
“Not when you're the one handling it, I assure you.”
“Come on,” she teased, pushing her hair away from her face in the process. “It would ruin your Christmas if you didn't have me to argue with.”
Yes, it would, damn her. “You mean fight with.”
“That, too,” she conceded.
“Ah, but the best part of fighting is making up, and we never seem to get to that point, do we, Chickadee?”
He watched a pretty blush bloom beneath her creamy skin and her pupils dilate. She took a bigger pull from her drink. “I saw the new ornaments for this season,” she said, obviously deciding a subject change was in order. “They're quite lovely.”
“Thank you. I've been pleased with them.” That was an understatement. Other than his debut “Frosty” series, he'd been happier with this set than he had any other, and he'd been designing ornaments for the Evergreen Collection since he'd turned thirteen. Typically ornament design fell to the women in the family, but Ethan had inadvertently shown he'd had a knack for it when his little sister, Belle, had failed spectacularly at it. He'd come to her rescue and the rest, as they say, was history. He took a little needling from his brothers, of courseâboys will be boysâbut when his designs had started outselling all the others and had increased the company's overall bottom line, the ribbing had stopped.
Besides, it was his outlet. He could plead “artistic solitude,” go to his studio and lock himself away from the rest of the world for hours. Being the smiling, perpetually upbeat and happy face of the company wasn't exactly an easy job, but it was expected and he was good at it. He didn't complain because he was certain that each and every member of his family felt the same way about their own roles.
But it was for the greater good of the Evergreen family, so...
“The inspiration?”
“
The Night Before Christmas
, the 1949 edition illustrated by Leonard Weisgard.” Ethan loved Weisgard's work. He'd written and illustrated many books throughout his career that showed incredible technical expertise, but the sense of movement and the confident use of vivid colors were especially impressive. The style was less Victorian and more contemporary, particularly for the late 1940s.
A small line appeared between her brows. “I can't say that I recognize that edition, but if the colors are as bold as your ornaments, I'm sure I'd like it.”
He was sure she would, as well. “I have an extra copy,” he said. “I'd be happy to mail it to you.”
She looked intrigued for half a second, then practicality prevailed. “No, thanks.”
Ethan smiled and leaned over, purposely crowding her personal space. Naturally, she didn't budge. “It's just a book, Lark,” he confided. “Not propaganda.”
“It wouldn't matter if it were,” she said, deliberately lifting her drink to her lips. “
I'm
not drinking your Christmas Kool-Aid.”
“Me neither,” he said with a grimace. “Our wine is
so
much better.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You're in the wine business now, too? Seriously?”
Ethan chuckled at her slack-jawed expression and shook his head. “No, but that's a thought. I'd never considered marketing it before. My father makes it just for the family.”
An odd expression suddenly crossed her face. Seemingly embarrassed, she looked away.
“What?” Ethan asked, intrigued.
“What, what?” She adjusted the salt and pepper shakers so they were perfectly aligned. She liked order, he'd noticed. And right angles.
“That look.”
She blinked innocently. “What look?”
“Cut it out, Lark,” he said, smiling. “You know exactly what I mean. What was that look for?”
A slow grin teased her lips, consenting defeat. She let go of a small sigh. “Oh, all right. Since you refuse to drop it... It was the comment about your father.”
He frowned. “My father? What about him?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I'd, uh, never thought about you having one before.”
Ethan blinked and a bark of startled laughter broke from his throat. “Never thought about me having one before?” he repeated incredulously. “A father? Really?” he teased. “Did you think I'd sprung fully grown from Santa's bag of presents?”
“Or the loins of Satan,” she quipped, chuckling softly, her eyes twinkling.
“Satan?” He shook his head, chewed the inside of his cheek. “
Wow
.”
“I'm only teasing,” she said, still laughing.
“It might surprise you to know I have a mother, too,” he said. “And a couple of brothers, and a sister and grandparents and great-grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. A whole family tree that is quite large, multi-forked and healthy.”
She was wheezing because she was chuckling so hard now. Her eyes had watered and, most significantly, the tension he'd noticed in her shoulders had melted away. She looked happy and relaxed and...gorgeous.
Her brow briefly folded in confusion. “Multi-forked?”
Ethan tossed back the rest of his whiskey and signaled for another. “Well, you know what they say about family trees that don't fork...”
Understanding lit her gaze and she inclined her head. “Ah, right. Well, I never said I thought your parents were closely related,” she pointed out.
“No, only that you thought I didn't have any, and that, if I had a father at all, it was the Prince of Darkness.”
She grinned at him, not the least bit repentant. “He's royalty, isn't he? Glass half-full, remember?”
The bartender slid him a new drink and he lifted it up to send a toast in her direction. “I prefer my glass completely full.”
Her cell suddenly vibrated against the tabletop, drawing her attention. An instant smile bloomed over her lips and her eyes lit with excitement. “If this call means what I think it means, you're going to need a lot more
full
glasses.”
Oh, hell. That didn't sound good. Inexplicable dread suddenly swelled in his gut.
“Well?” she asked by way of greeting. “Please tell me you've got good news.”
Lark gasped delightedly and, impossibly, her smile widened. When she aimed it at him, it had a distinctly cat-in-the-cream-pot element that he found more than a little disturbing.
“This Friday? Wow. That was quicker than I'd imagined, but you know I'm ready.”
He'd just bet she was. And whatever it was she was ready for was undoubtedly going to make his life hell and put him in full-blown defense mode.
Like there wasn't enough going on as it was.
He'd gotten a text message from his brother that featured a new picture of Santa and had the caption “WTE?” (What the Elf?) In addition to the twenty pounds he'd lost recently, he'd dyed his hair shoe-polish black and shaved his beard. Evidently trying to look more like Guido, the thirty-something ski instructor Mrs. Claus had recently started taking lessons from. Lord... Merry was on Cougar Patrol and Kris, the very epitome of Christmas, was rocking the “old Elvis” look.
Not good.
So
not good.
“Yes, yes, I know. I'm actually looking forward to seeing his face as well. As it happens, I'll get to do that in just a second.” She was staring at him, the she-devil, looking absolutely triumphant.
The dread intensified.
“Oh, yes. We're having a drink. Yes, right here with me. Oh, yeah. I'm going to get to gloat in person.”
Ethan feigned dispassion and tried to appear indulgent rather than curious, though admittedly she'd set the hook and was simply toying with him until she could scoop him into the net.
But that didn't mean he had to make it easy for her.
He glanced at his watch, deliberately noted the time with an exaggerated wince, then finished his drink. He was in the process of throwing cash on the bar and sliding off his stool before she realized what he was doing.
She started. “Sorry, Lisa. Gotta run. Will get back to you later this afternoon.” She ended the call and arched an accusatory brow. “Where are you going? I thought we were having a drink.”
“I've had several,” he said, making sure he'd added a decent tip. “I've got to get to the airport.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “You have a private plane. You don't have to leave right now.” She shot him a calculating look. “You're running scared. Hmm. That's disappointing. Never pegged you as a coward.”
Ethan chuckled. “What am I supposed to be afraid of, Chickadee? You?” he goaded, purposely baiting her.
Predictably, those pretty violet eyes sparked with irritation. “Yes, actually, but I can see how you'd underestimate me.” She tapped a thoughtful finger against her chin. “I wonder if you'll still feel that way after my special guest spot on
Ophelia
airs this Friday.”
Ethan stilled and the dread that had been collecting in his middle hardened into a sickening lump.
Ophelia?
The cat-in-the-cream-pot smile again. “Ah,” she breathed. “Scared now, aren't you?”
Yes, actually, his mind whirling with the potentially catastrophic implications of her little bombshell revelation. With a platform like the
Ophelia Winslow Show
, she could quite literally
ruin
Christmas. She could squash the Christmas spirit to the point that the magic wouldn't work and the millions of children around the world who anxiously waited for Santa to arrive with their presents would be so disappointed that it could take
years
to overcome. A hit like that...