She pulled her mouth away, a fraction of an inch. Just enough so she could form the word, but close enough for him to feel her breath. “Tree.”
He looked down at her, face strained. His lips were suffused with blood and wet from her mouth. One big hand on her backside pulled her toward him as he ground against her. She fluttered inside, and looked helplessly up at him. “John.” There wasn’t any air in her lungs. The word came out more as a stirring of the air than a sound.
He arched his head away from her, neck tendons corded, jaws clenching. He looked at the ceiling for a long moment, and brought his head back down as he stepped back reluctantly, frowning. “You’re going to use sex to get everything you want from me, aren’t you?”
She didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
“It works, damn it,” he grumbled. He reached for his sheepskin jacket and stopped, pointing a finger at her. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he growled.
“Of course not.” She smiled innocently. “Where would I go, anyway? Look, I’m staying right here, you will be in sight of the cabin at all times, nothing will happen except that we get ourselves a Christmas tree and feel better.”
He stared at her, as if she were going to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Or run away into the forest. He gave a sudden nod, pulled on thick leather gloves and walked out the door.
She needed this, but she knew what it cost him. He had an overly protective nature. This went completely against the grain of every instinct he had. It was a promising sign that he’d gone out to look for a tree for her. It showed that there was room for compromise in his hard nature.
Suzanne sprang into action. She didn’t have much time. It would take her hours to dig up a tree with the roots, place it in a bag and haul it into the cabin. But John was stronger than most and was frighteningly efficient. So she had to hurry.
In half an hour, a turkey leg was basting in the oven together with baked potatoes. Frozen biscuits were waiting to be put in, corn on the cob was boiling on the stove and an apple pie was waiting to be baked. It was frozen, but a good brand. Vanilla ice cream was in the small freezer.
A bowl of unbuttered popcorn awaited threading. Apples studded with cloves were in a bowl, adding their spice to the air.
The Fork in the Road supermarket had even had a surprisingly decent selection of wines. One bottle was boiling gently on the stove, steeped in sugar, cloves and cinnamon. She breathed in the heady air of vin brulè and smiled. The other bottle was airing.
It wasn’t Comme Chez Soi, but it would do. Now the shack.
This place was so bleak, so spare. So unloving and unloved, it hurt her heart.
Opening the bags, she spread out the supplies. Three cheap single-bed red sheets billowed out. She tied them with decorative knots over the sorry, dull brown sofa and two armchairs, placed red and white striped pillows on them and arranged them together in the middle of the room, creating a pleasing little grouping. John had simply shoved them against the walls. An upended wooden crate she’d found outside the kitchen door covered with two pretty oversized linen tea towels made a makeshift coffee table.
She’d found a lovely rose-patterned tablecloth and napkins with big cabbage roses on them for the dining table. Two taper candles in cut-glass holders and the table looked almost…elegant.
She’d made John stop by the roadside on the way back. As he watched, astounded, she’d used a knife he kept in the SUV to cut boughs of evergreens. She put the boughs in a big plastic vase filled with water, and put it beside the sofa. The fresh smell of pine soon permeated the living room. She lit two big red perfumed candles and placed them on the coffee table and lit a line of tea candles she’d arranged on a shelf. She twirled the knobs of the radio until she found a station playing Christmas music.
Hurry! Everything had to be just so by the time John returned, including herself. A quick shower and application of perfumed body lotion. Check. Cherry-red cashmere sweater. Check. Lightly applied makeup, the first she’d worn in two days. Check. Perfume on her pulse points, hair, between her breasts. Check. She had just finished brushing her hair when she heard the front door open and hurried into the living room.
It had turned dark and very cold while she’d made her preparations. John stood in the doorframe, a good-sized tree with its roots attached over one shoulder, a large tin tub hanging from one big hand, looking for all the world like Paul Bunyan minus the ox. A gust of frigid, pine-scented air gusted in behind him. His breath swirled whitely around his head.
He took in the room and her in one dark glance and something—something dark and powerful—moved in his eyes. He froze in place, face hard and set as he looked at her.
Oh God.
She’d wanted so much to surprise him, delight him. Make him forget his woes, and hers. Clearly, she’d overstepped the bounds. With a quick rush of shame, Suzanne realized that trying to “fix up” his shack was an implicit criticism of it. As if she were too refined to spend time in a place that was less than designer perfect. He must think she was a terrible snob. Snobbery was the farthest thing from her mind. It was so instinctive for her—to make her surroundings better, to prettify—that it hadn’t even occurred to her that he might take it badly.
The last thing she wanted to do was offend him. He’d risked his life for her. He’d abandoned his business without a backward glance in order to protect her. He’d taught her more about sex and passion in the past few days than she’d learned in twenty-eight years of life. The thought that she’d insulted this magnificent man made her heart-stricken.
They stared at each other across the room.
“I’m sorry, John,” she whispered. “Did I overstep the bounds? I thought I’d surprise you.” She was wringing her hands and forced herself to stop. “I hope I didn’t offend you if I changed a few things around. I didn’t want to insult you, I just—”
“No.” His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and moved into the room. “No, I’m not offended. Of course not. Everything’s very…nice. Where do you want this?”
“Over there.” Suzanne pointed to the corner that positively cried out for a Christmas tree. “Put some water in the tub first.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He actually smiled, perhaps the third smile she’d seen cross his face. Her heart turned over. And just like that she knew. She was in love with this man.
She must have been half-way there already because the knowledge settled in her heart not as a blinding revelation, but as if there were a John Huntington-shaped place already there, waiting for him to fill it and waiting for her to acknowledge it.
Was this why she hadn’t given her heart to any other man? Because she hadn’t, not really. Oh sure, she’d dated and had had a few lovers, but right now, at this moment, she couldn’t remember a thing about any of them. She remembered everything—everything—about John Huntington.
The way his deep voice seemed to set up reverberations in her diaphragm. The way his hard, callused hands could be so delicate. The way he unerringly put himself between her and danger. The way his tongue against hers robbed her of breath. The way his penis felt, hard and hot, inside her.
Was it just sex? Maybe. Goodness knows, she’d thought of sex the instant she’d seen him. They hadn’t had one conversation that hadn’t had sex as the backdrop. It oozed out of the man’s pores and she’d fallen instantly in lust, the second she’d met him. So unlike her, the Queen of Cool.