“Your turn.” She pulled out another towel, draped the fabric over his shoulders, tiptoed, and kissed him on the jaw. “Times-a-wasting, Satan, and we have food to eat, wine to drink, carols to sing, and a tree to decorate. This is so exciting. My first white Christmas, and it’s a real one. With a fire blazing and all the rest.”
Her enthusiasm proved contagious, and he found himself grinning and hustling her into the cabana bath.
“We left the wine and the appetizers by the tub.” She made to reach for the door handle.
“I’ll get it. You get dressed. Turn on the pot on the stove. The decorations are in a box near the couch. I’ll bring the tree into the library.” He tweaked her nose, opened the door, and waved her into the house.
When she disappeared from sight, he shut the cabana bath door, walked around the tub, and went nose-to-nose with the glass wall. He was now totally encapsulated by the enclosure. Locked in on all sides. He waited, and waited some more, for the panic to hit him, for his heart rate to gallop, for the barometric pressure to compress his lungs.
His heart rate spiked. He fell back on his SEAL training and forced his breathing to slow to the point where he was ready to do four minutes underwater. Though tempted to shutter his vision, he didn’t, but concentrated on the landscape. He relaxed his tensed deltoids, splayed his fisted hands, and the frenetic, maniac edge left him.
A quick survey of the backyard revealed about three inches of snow had fallen, and that the storm showed no signs of abating. Pleased Angel would have her white Christmas he stacked the wine and glasses on the food tray and returned to the kitchen. After checking the lamb stew Destiny had delivered that afternoon, he redressed donning sweats and a T-shirt, picked up the loaded platter, and carrying his bounty, padded barefoot to the library.
Angel sat cross-legged on the sheepskin rug surrounded by empty boxes and mounds of green strings of lights. She glanced up at him and grinned. “Do you have a Bluetooth speaker? I programmed Christmas carols on Pandora.”
“Sure. I’ll grab it for you. I’ll bring the tree too.”
“It’s kind of big and looks heavy.”
“It is. It’s also on a rolling stand and will fit through the door. I measured.” He set the tray on the coffee table and squatted beside her. “You changed. I like.”
She wore a long, sleeveless black dress with a low scooped neckline.
He traced the plump cleavage exposed by the fabric.
She kissed his arm and tipped her head back to meet his stare. “Hurry back.”
“You bet.” He couldn’t remember feeling this happy in forever. His cheeks ached from smiling. And he couldn’t wait to see her face when she opened her gifts. Looked forward with avid anticipation to the expression she would wear when she saw the bedroom.
He stalked to the kitchen and turned the stew down to a simmer. Remembered her request, made his way to the study, nabbed a portable wireless speaker, went to the foyer, and rolled the tree down the hallway and into the library.
“I moved that chair over there to make room for the tree. The lights will reflect great in the picture windows, doncha think?” She walked to him, and they both situated the tree into the corner opposite the fire.
“You’re right. Here’s the speaker.”
She accepted the round amplifier, twirled around, and went to the coffee table. In moments the strains of the Christmas carol,
Do You Hear What I Hear
, filled the room.
For the next hour and a half, they worked side by side while nibbling on salami, cubed parmesan, stuffed olives, mushrooms, and buffalo mozzarella. He strung the lights on the tree under her direction. They took turns hanging decorations on branches.
“Let’s do the star together. I’ll carry you up the ladder. You hang it on the tree.” He lifted her high against this chest.
“Are you sure? That’s awfully high. And I’m a big girl. Don’t want you to fall or stumble and ruin our tree.” She nuzzled the five o’clock shadow coating his chin.
“A goat isn’t as steady as me.” He brushed his lips to the arch of one eyebrow. “Ready?”
“Yep.” She wrapped one hand around his neck, and lifted the star in her other.
He climbed the ladder to three below the top run, stretched his arms so she could reach the bare branch at the tree’s apex, and watched her plant the star and steady the ornament with a lithe grace.
He backed down to the floor, set Angel on her feet, and twined their fingers together while they both admired their tree.
She sighed. “It’s perfect. I like the star. We always had an angel on ours.”
“I prefer to have my Angel on the sheepskin rug right next to the tree.”
“No objection from this gal. I’m yours for the next four days.” Angel went up on her toes, kissed his cheek, and sniffed the hollow of his throat. “God, I love the way you smell. What aftershave do you use?”
He hugged her to his side. “It’s Greek. And trust me, the name’s unpronounceable.”
She whirled around to face him, linked her hands behind his neck, and inspected his features. His onyx hair and matching eyes together with his bronzed complexion spoke of Mediterranean origins. “You’re Greek?”
“I was born in Crete. Know of it?”
A tad unnerved by the coincidence, she fiddled with the collar of his black T-shirt. “After my parents’ deaths, my BFF, who lives in London, decided that I needed to get out of Trinidad. So, she organized for us to go on a mini-vacation to Athens and Crete.”
“And?” He gave her butt a quick squeeze. “What did you think of my homeland?”
“Throwing my words right back at me, aren’t you? I didn’t care much for Athens. The smog, the traffic, the sheer haphazardness with the way the city is run so reminded me of Port-of-Spain, Trinidad’s capital. For some reason, I expected a civilization that’s been around for eons to be organized and efficient.”
Satan snorted. “Efficient, organized, and Greece—the perfect oxymoron example. But the rural areas are breathtaking. I assume you saw the sights?”
“We tried twice to see the Acropolis, but there was a strike, and we couldn’t get there. It was my BFF’s third visit to Athens and every trip the Acropolis workers were on strike.”
Satan grimaced. “Per the norm. There’s always some sort of strike. What did you do in Athens?”
“Took a bus tour of the city. Ate. The food was delicious. We had these lamb ribs roasted on vine stalks. The mere memory of it’s making my mouth water.” She licked her lips.
“We’re having one of Destiny’s lamb stews for dinner.” God, the man had the naughtiest smile in the world. His statement ricocheted and registered. She smacked him on the arm. “No way, Jose. Really? Lamb’s one of my favorite proteins. And if Destiny cooked it, then that stew’s gonna rock my taste buds.”
“Do you want to eat now?”
She shook her head. “After all that antipasti? I’m stuffed. What I think we need to do is work up an appetite for that yummy lamb.”
“Way ahead of you. First, let’s set the mood.” He nudged her chin. “Put on those sexy red shoes. We’re dancing. I’ll clear away some space in here.”
Her jaw sagged. Every time she thought she had him figured out, he threw her a curve ball. Then she recalled her conversation with Jess. “You phoned Jess, didn’t you?”
“Yep. As did you. Don’t even try to deny it.” He twirled a thick strand of her hair around his finger, brushed the lock along her collar bone, and stared right at her.
Her face and neck heated. No sense lying about such a trite and obvious move on her part. “I’ll take in front. I asked her if I’d been a fool to let you go, as you put it, bareback. She assured me you live by your word. What? Why’re you giving me that peculiar look?”
“I’ll take in front? Not sure what you mean by that.” His ferocious frown didn’t smooth.
She smushed her mouth. “My bad. It’s been a while since I lapsed into Trini-speak with an American. It’s the Trini combo of taking a front seat role and the best defense being on the offensive. I’m getting too relaxed in your company.”
“That’s good. You being relaxed, that is. FYI, I asked Jess about your pet peeves and your sweet spots. She said you were taking jitterbug lessons and that you loved to dance. Another thing we have in common.”
“Trini men like to dance, and so do Latin, Italian, and Spanish men, but I’ve yet to meet an American male who does. We don’t need to dance, Satan. I don’t have to be wooed—”
“One. I’m Greek born. Greeks dance. Period. Two, I want to dance with you. Three, to woo or not is my call not yours, darlin’.”
When he pinpointed his total focus onto her like he was now, her belly fluttered, and she craved them naked and sweaty on the spot. This man who exuded menace and danger enjoyed dancing, and she knew he would be the embodiment of lithe gracefulness and a dark sensuality on any dance floor.
He smacked her rear. “The CFM shoes.”
She saluted. “Aye, aye sir.”
Glad of the chance to be alone, Angel hurried to the kitchen, picked up her carry-on, and heaved the luggage onto a chair. She found the shoes and donned them. Then she rummaged in the suitcase and selected one of the gift bags she purchased earlier, hefted the decorative sack, and wondered if she’d been too impulsive.
What did it matter? They had a total of four days together and then—ka-pow—all done.
The mouth-watering aromas coming from the pot on the stovetop proved too tempting. She sauntered over, lifted the lid, and inhaled the appetizing steam curls. The stew’s scrumptious aromas made her mouth water, she covered the pot, gathered her receding courage, and the gift bag, and strolled to the library.
A slow smile crept across Angel’s lips at the sight that met her eyes.
In a matter of a few minutes, he had transformed the room. Dozens of candles lit the cavernous yet cozy circular space. All the lights had been turned off.
The Christmas tree was the star of the scene. A roaring blaze crackled and spit in the fireplace. One panel of the French doors stood ajar, and a silvery beam of moonlight streamed through the slight opening. An ocean draft intermingled with the tree’s pine scent to form a spicy, fragrant aroma.
She hid the bag behind one of the chairs that had been shoved to the wall, scanned the enchanting room searching for Satan, and found him rolling up the carpet that had been under the coffee table. He stood, strode to her, captured her hand, and gestured to the room. “You like?”
“Oh I like all right. It’s like a Christmas ballroom. How’d you manage so much so fast?” She walked alongside him, pleased to note their strides matched in length.
“Destiny. Told her what I wanted, and she arranged it. Everything was in place, all I had to do was light the candles, move a couple of chairs, and start the fire. Shall we dance?” He offered her his arm.
“Music?” Only the occasional hissing and popping of the fire broke the quiet.
“Covered.” He pulled a remote from his pocket and hit a button. The strains of “Santa Baby” swirled around the room. He opened his arms in invitation.
On a contented sigh, Angel snuggled into his embrace. It took a few twists and turns, but they found a perfect rhythm. Never had dancing been so effortless and eclectic, Angel surrendered to Satan’s certain lead. Wondered why she was surprised at how much he appeared to enjoy seducing her into a new cadence, a quick twirl, a sensual dip.
They swayed and spun through an entire playlist. More and more astounded by his extended repertoire, she laughed when he changed the mood entirely by selecting a jitterbug tune.
The man had moves. She shrieked when he slid her to the marble between his feet and pulled her right back into the dance. He did that over the back move without missing a beat and carried her with such surety, neither of them stumbled. When the tunes ended, he snagged her knees, carted her over to the large sofa, and collapsed into the leather.
When she caught her breath, Angel declared, “That was so much fun!”
“It was, wasn’t it?” What a grin the man had—full of mischievous invitation.
An idea blossomed. She hopped off his lap.
“What’re you doing?”
He snatched at her wrist, but she yanked her hand out of his range and salsaed over to the blue tooth stereo docking station with his iPhone. “I’m going to teach you how to wine.”
“To wine?” He raised a dark brow.
“The Trini word for what Americans call dirty dancing. Wining is an art every Trini male or female perfects long before she hits adolescence. When I demonstrated it at college with a fellow Trini, everyone said it was basically having sex with all your clothes on.”
She picked up his phone from the coffee table, created a new Pandora station, and entered three songs. Her breathing went raspy and irregular at the thought of wining on him, behind him, in front of him. A tidal wave of lust crashed through her. Shit. Maybe she’d outsmarted herself with this move.
She looked up to find his piercing black eyes fixated on her and blurted, “Let’s skip the wining lesson and get naked instead.”
He crooked his finger at her and shook his head. “No way, missy. You finish what you start. Satan’s rules.”
The dark wave of her desire lightened. She exaggerated the sway of her hips and sashayed to him. The brass section of a famous Trinidadian band echoed around the room. “This is old, but it’s classic. It’s called “Dollar Wine,” and it’s the Trini song that teaches you how to wine. Just listen to the lyrics while I show you what to do.”
When she stood not a foot away from him, Angel spun around and gave him her back. She snagged his wrists, placed his hands on her lower belly, jammed her rump into his groin, and circled her hips slowly over his erection. “That’s the basic motion. Okay on cent, we grind to the right, five cents—”
To her utmost shock, he immediately gripped her pelvis, and began to control the rhythm. “Five cents, left, ten, back, dollar, grind front. I was in Trinidad during Carnival in 1991. This song was what you call the Road March. The song most played by bands going over the judging stage.”
God, he could be a Trini. The man wined like a pro, grinding his cock in a tight circle on her ass, and when he set his palm to her mound and pressed the heel on her clit, she reeled.