The Nights Before Christmas

Guaranteed, he’d found a shy woman who was hiding a delicious naughty streak. His ultimate fantasy. But if she was shy, she might never become bold enough to cross the barrier between them.

That was really for the best, because the longer he hung around Suzanne, the more he realized that he would definitely have trouble maintaining his distance. Suzanne was too close to his ideal woman for comfort. If she indicated the slightest interest he would be setting himself up for a fall.

Once he got to know her better, she’d probably give herself away like all the others had. Sooner or later she’d ask why he hadn’t finished his degree. When she learned he had no interest in that, she’d either end the connection or keep bugging him about it. He wasn’t about to be harassed.

At least now he knew enough not to repeat the mistake he’d made with Amelia. He was probably an idiot for holding out any hope that he’d find a woman who was smart, ambitious and yet willing to let him live as he chose. Still, the hope wouldn’t completely die.

Suzanne lingered in the doorway of the bathroom as he sat down and prepared to wiggle under the sink again. She reminded him of his cat, Matilda, when he’d first found her as a stray two years ago. Matilda had been timid in the beginning, too, but once he’d won her over she’d turned into an awesome cat. He tended to prefer people and animals who were slow to warm up. Although they presented more of a challenge at first, they usually were more steadfast in the end.

Still, he had the impression that he could fix the sink and leave the apartment without making any real contact with this intriguing woman. Once again, he told himself that was a good thing. He was too attracted to her, and that was dangerous.

But what if Suzanne was different? What if she was the one he’d been looking for? On impulse, he broke a longstanding rule. “I haven’t seen your boyfriend around lately,” he said.

Panic flashed in her blue eyes. “Uh, he—”

“Not that it’s any of my business.” He ducked under the sink, silently cursing himself. He might imagine he knew what was going on with Suzanne, but he could be dead wrong. All he really knew was that the pipe under her bathroom sink had rusted out.

No, that wasn’t true, he thought as he applied plumber’s tape to the threads of the new pipe. He’d bet a million dollars that she hadn’t been the one who walked out of the relationship. And, as his experience taught him, now she was doubting herself, doubting her ability to attract and keep a man. Restoring the confidence of women in that position had become his stock-in-trade recently, and he knew that he did it well.

In spite of the risk, he wanted to help Suzanne, but he couldn’t if she didn’t want him to. So far she’d given no indication that she wanted his sympathy and counsel. He inserted the new pipe and tightened it down. At least Suzanne’s sink wouldn’t leak anymore. As for the rest of her problems, she’d have to decide whether she needed his assistance.

Crawling back out from under the sink, he checked to see if she was still standing in the bathroom doorway. She wasn’t. He’d scared her off with that remark about Jared. Served him right for jumping the gun.

He turned on the water valve and tested the pipe coupling for leaks. An interesting word—coupling. He hadn’t enjoyed any personal coupling in months, not since the mess with Rachel.

About a year ago he’d stumbled onto a cozy pub, a place where he’d felt instantly at home. The weekly darts tournament had soon become a cherished ritual for him.

Rachel was one of the regular participants and they’d flirted with each other for months. But they never should have gone to bed together. Deep down he’d known that, but he let a couple of beers and her sexy red dress cloud his judgment. Rachel was good-hearted, and she had an amazing body, but she had no intellectual curiosity whatsoever.

That’s when Greg had learned the hard way that if a women didn’t stimulate his mind she wouldn’t stimulate the rest of him, at least not after the first flush of discovery had passed. Rachel, as forgiving a woman as he could hope to find, didn’t seem to hold it against him. The others had obviously taken their cue from her, so he was still welcomed as part of the group. Because his job could be lonely at times, he needed that connection.

While he put away his tools and closed up the toolbox, he thought about the bind he’d created for himself. The women who attracted him, like Suzanne, weren’t likely to want a guy who was content to remain a handyman for the rest of his life. But women like Rachel, who thought his job was perfectly acceptable, weren’t brainy enough to satisfy him. He’d boxed himself into a corner, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Walking back through Suzanne’s bedroom, he noticed her suit jacket lying neatly across the end of the four-poster bed. He wondered if that was a subtle signal, and his pulse quickened.

Then he blew out a breath, impatient with himself. Talk about overanalyzing the situation. No doubt she’d decided to cook herself some dinner and didn’t want to do it wearing a suit jacket.

Still, he couldn’t quite dismiss the picture of Suzanne in the bedroom taking off her suit jacket while he was only a few feet away working on the pipe under her bathroom sink. Thinking of Suzanne unfastening buttons and arching her back slightly as she slipped out of the jacket, he experienced a distinct stirring in his groin.

That impulse had required two beers and a slinky red dress in Rachel’s case. Apparently, in Suzanne’s case, all he needed was his own fertile imagination and a black suede jacket lying across the end of a bed of roses.

He took another look at the little red devil on her bed. If only Suzanne hadn’t asked him his last name, he’d be convinced that there was nothing on her mind besides the sink. But she had asked, which made him wonder if the two of them were missing a golden opportunity to get better acquainted.

“See you later, buddy,” he said to the devil, although chances were he never would.

He found Suzanne in the kitchen stirring a saucepan full of tomato soup. By eliminating the jacket, she’d raised the seduction value of her outfit about five hundred percent. The cream-colored blouse had long sleeves with covered buttons down the front and at the cuffs. A silky blouse like that draped a woman’s breasts like nothing else he knew of. He could make out a hint of lace beneath the material, a kind of subtlety that had always driven him a little crazy.

Moist heat from the stove had steamed up the small window over the sink, which seemed to close them into their own private world. If they were lovers, he’d put down his toolbox and walk up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. Then he’d cup her breasts. He swallowed, nearly able to feel the warm silk against his palms. Gradually he’d begin unfastening the buttons…

He cleared his throat. “You’re all set,” he said. “No leaks.”

She glanced up, a wary look in her eyes. “Thank you so much.”

Had she seemed more relaxed, he might have searched for a reason to stay, but she was as uptight as ever. “I’ll be taking off, then.” He started to leave.

“Would you…”

He turned back. “What?”

Her cheeks were pinker than the roses decorating her comforter. “Would you like some soup?”

He hesitated, unsure if the offer was made from courtesy because he’d caught her in the act of preparing it, or if she genuinely wanted him to stay.

“It’s out of a can,” she said. “It’s not homemade or anything. And I’m keeping it simple.” She nodded toward a cheese board holding a wedge of cheddar and a cheese slicer. Next to that was a basketfull of assorted crackers. “Just crackers and cheese to go with it.”

That decided the issue. No way would he turn down her soup and make her think he cared whether it was canned or not, or whether he was picky about having a full meal. “Thanks. That would be great.” He looked around for a place to put his toolbox.

“Over there by the pantry is fine.”

He set the box down, shoving it out of the way as best he could.

“I’ve never seen a wooden toolbox like that,” she said. “Aren’t they usually made out of metal?”

“The newer ones are,” he said. “This one belonged to my dad.” He couldn’t remember any of the tenants commenting on the box, and he was pleased that she had. The toolbox meant a great deal to him, but to most people, it was only a big wooden carrying case. “Can I help with anything?”

She shrugged. “Not much to do but stir.”

The kitchen was small and narrow, with the stove and refrigerator on one side, the sink and cabinets on the other. He wanted to wash his hands before he ate, but if he stood at the sink, he’d be crowding her, invading her space. Still, going back into the bathroom to wash his hands seemed sort of ridiculous.

“I’d like to wash up, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” She didn’t look up from her vigorous stirring of the soup.

The space between was barely big enough for two people. He was careful not to brush against her as he moved in front of the sink. In such proximity he could smell that rose fragrance of hers, and when he leaned over to wash his hands, his hip brushed against her. He imagined he heard a quick intake of breath and wondered if she’d felt the same jolt of awareness he had.

“Sorry,” he said. He tilted his pelvis toward the sink.

“Not a problem.”

He was a skilled listener, and he heard the tremble in her voice. “They didn’t build these kitchens with two people in mind.” In reality he thought this was the best kind of kitchen for cooking with your lover. He thought large spaces were highly overrated.

Pulling a paper towel from a rack, he noticed that the screws on the rack were loose. “Your towel rack needs to be tightened up,” he said. Yeah, sure. He was looking for an excuse to keep occupying that space.

“Later, maybe. The soup’s ready. If you’ll take the crackers and cheese into the living room, I’ll bring the soup.”

He reached over and picked up the cracker basket and the cheese board before going to stand near the kitchen doorway. “We’re eating in the living room? On that white sofa?” He had a vision of tomato soup all over it.

“It’s stain-proofed.” She turned, reached into the cabinet and took out two large stoneware mugs. When she did that, she grimaced, as if raising her arms hurt her.

“Are you okay?”

She turned in surprise. “I’m fine. Why?”

“You looked as if you were in pain just then.”

“Oh. I’ve been going to the gym with Terri, and my muscles aren’t pleased about it.”

Now he had a new picture to contend with—Suzanne in tight workout clothes. “I don’t think you’re supposed to get sore working out. Do you stretch?” He wondered why anybody with a body like hers felt the need to go to the gym. No body-sculpting machine would be able to improve on those measurements.

“I stretch.” She took the pan from the stove and started pouring the soup into the mugs. “I get in the hot tub. I take herbal baths when I get home.”

He’d bet she did. And now he had a mental image of her doing that. Oh, baby.

She gave him a quick smile. “I’m just not in very good shape. It’ll get better, or at least Terri says it will.”

“A massage might help.” This conversation wasn’t a good idea. Now he imagined Suzanne stretched out on a massage table naked, while someone, preferably him, oiled her up. He’d sent away for a tantric-massage video months ago because he’d always been curious about the discipline. He’d discovered that the video showed him exactly how to massage a woman to orgasm. He’d never tried it.

“Massage might be a good idea.” Her color was high, almost as if she’d been able to peek into his fevered brain. “I’m sure the gym has some people on staff who could handle that.”

“I’m sure.” He didn’t want her to be massaged by some people on staff. He wanted to take care of it, and he wanted to do it now.

She picked up the mugs and glanced at him. “Ready?”

SOUP. SHE’D INVITED HIM to have a bowl of from-a-can soup. How domestic and totally idiotic. When she’d come up with the plan, it had seemed like a great idea for a cold winter night and something she could prepare in a hurry. But Greg was a big guy, and the skimpy meal she’d offered him wouldn’t be more than an appetizer for him. An appetizer for what?

“Should I move the poinsettia?” he asked.

“Um, sure. And the magazines, if you don’t mind. That stuff can go on the end table.”

She waited while he cleared the table and set down the cheese and crackers. He used care with her things, she noticed. Jared would have scooped up everything and dumped it in a pile, knocking leaves off the poinsettia in the process.

Concentrating on the task, she managed to place the mugs on the glass coffee table without spilling a single drop. That was a real feat, because she was still quivering inside from the way he’d looked at her back in the kitchen. She couldn’t remember ever having a man look at her like that, with such total appreciation. With carnal appreciation, to be precise.

She’d always assumed that kind of heated look would make her feel devalued, like a convenient sex object. But that single look, as if he’d enjoy licking every square inch of her, had done more for her self-esteem in two seconds than she could imagine getting in two years at the blasted gym. No, Greg was not like the gym.

But that didn’t mean she planned to go to bed with him. Scorching looks were a long way from scorching touches. But you couldn’t blame her for wanting to keep Greg around a little bit longer. Maybe she didn’t need the full treatment. A few more of those melting looks and she’d be good to go, ready to hit the dating scene, her ego repaired.

It felt great to be sexually desired. Fabulous. She surveyed the coffee table to see what they were missing. “We need napkins. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried to the kitchen and started to grab a couple of paper napkins from the holder on the counter. Then she changed her mind, opened a drawer and took out the bright red cloth napkins she’d bought because they matched the pillow on her sofa. She’d never found the right time to use them.

When she returned, she found him leafing through one of the magazines he’d moved to the end table. “Looks like you’re interested in decorating.”

She sat down, keeping a full cushion’s distance between them, and handed him a napkin. “I like to fool around.”

His glance was warm and knowing as he laid the napkin over his knee. “I can see that.”

Her words echoed in her head and she blushed. “With decorating, I mean.”

“I knew what you meant.” He picked up the mug of soup in those capable hands of his. “And it shows.”

She feared that what was showing was her sexual interest in him. She had to be careful that he didn’t get the wrong idea and act on some silent signal she was giving off. She grabbed the slicer and carved off a piece of cheese. “It’s hard to do much decoration in such a small apartment.” She put the cheese on a cracker so that she’d look as if she actually cared about eating.

Cradling the mug, he gazed at her. “Does that mean you want a big house someday?”

A big house, with a big bed, and a man who looked like Greg lying naked in it. “I suppose I do.” She’d always expected to have a home, and a husband, and a couple of kids. It was the American way.

In between imagining Greg lying naked on a king-size bed, she found herself wondering about his future plans. Maybe he’d asked the question because he was saving money to get a place of his own. “Do you want a big house eventually?” she asked. Then she took a bite of the cracker and cheese she didn’t want but had to pretend to enjoy.

“A house, maybe. Not a really big one, though. I like intimate, cozy spaces.”

She choked on a piece of cracker.

“Are you okay?”

Nodding frantically, she coughed and took a gulp of her soup. Intimate, cozy spaces. The man had a way with words.

He gazed at her with concern. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

She cleared her throat and blinked the moisture from her eyes. “I’m sure. Just took a breath when I shouldn’t have. So you’re hoping to buy a little bungalow, then?”

“Yeah. More like a cottage. I’ll probably always work in the city, but I wouldn’t mind having a vacation place in Wisconsin. On a lake would be terrific. And it has to have a fireplace.”

“Sounds like a nice dream.” Nobody would have to talk Greg into snuggling on the sofa on a rainy afternoon or during a weekend trip to a cottage in Wisconsin. Longing shivered through her. She wanted to be cuddled on a sofa. She wanted to be held, stroked, petted. According to Terri, this man knew how to do the job right.

But he was still a virtual stranger, and she didn’t go to bed with strangers. “You said that toolbox belonged to your dad,” she said. “Was he a handyman, too?”

He looked surprised by the question. “Yeah, he was.”

“So you decided to follow in his footsteps?”

“Not at first. Not until after…” He paused and stared down into his soup. Then he glanced up. “Not at first,” he said again with a smile. “You know how it is. Kids never want to do exactly what the parents do.”

She was positive he’d just made a decision not to tell her something important. Apparently he could talk about his vacation-home plans, but not about his father. He might be willing to take her to bed, but he wasn’t willing to tell her his innermost secrets.

Maybe that’s how a Casanova had to operate. Confiding secrets bonded people together, and Greg wasn’t about that. He was about restoring a woman’s sexual confidence and moving on.

Suzanne knew she ought to just accept the rules of the game. Instead she began to wonder why Greg had chosen this loner lifestyle, and if he protected himself because someone in his past had hurt him. “Do you like the work?” she asked.

“Yes. Yes, I do. The pay’s not great, but I get a place to stay and I’m pretty much my own boss. I also happen to like these older apartment buildings. I take a lot of satisfaction in keeping the place maintained in top condition.”

“I’m sure.” And in his spare time, he did the same for the female tenants, both taking and giving satisfaction. Broken light switch, call Greg. Broken heart, call Greg. But who was this man who rode in on a white horse, saved the day and rode away again? She wanted to know what made Greg Stone tick.

“How about you?” Greg said. “Do you like your job?”

He’d smoothly switched the topic of conversation away from him, and she decided to let him get away with it for now. “Yes, I like it.” He had nicely shaped ears, she thought. Some men enjoyed having a woman run her tongue around the curve of their ear. Others didn’t. She wondered which type Greg was.

“What exactly do you do?” he asked.

His green eyes were mesmerizing. A woman could forget everything if she allowed herself to be caught in that gaze. “I’m a financial analyst with Apollo Mutual Funds,” she said.

He nodded. “I thought you did something like that.”

“Do I look so much like an economics major, then?” she asked with a tight smile. Jared used to taunt her about that. You may love playing with stock-market quotes all day, but you don’t have to look like you do. She’d finally figured out he wanted someone who looked as if she modeled lingerie for a living.

“You do look like an economics major,” Greg said with an answering smile. “And I think—”

“I know. Don’t say it. You think I need to loosen up, dress less conservatively, wear my hair down, stop looking so financial all the time.” She’d tolerated that speech from Jared, but she didn’t have to hear it from the handyman, especially when the handyman kept himself shrouded in mystery.

He took another sip of tomato soup. “I was going to say that I think that looking like a financial analyst is kind of sexy.”

“Sexy?” She glanced down at her cream-colored silk blouse. “Hardly. But then it isn’t my goal to make a sexual statement when I go into the office.”

“It may not be. That doesn’t mean you don’t.”

She met his gaze and suddenly didn’t want to play anymore. “Maybe that sort of flattery works with other women, but I’m not taken in,” she said quietly. “I’m well aware of the type of outfit and behavior that men find sexy, and that’s not where I shine.”

He leaned toward her, his quiet tone matching hers. “Pardon me, Ms. Talbot, but obviously you don’t know your Wall Street Journal from the National Enquirer if you’re going to make a statement like that.”

Her cheeks grew warm. She’d expected him to retreat, not counterattack. And she was gradually becoming aware that his vocabulary didn’t quite fit her image of an uneducated blue-collar worker. “I have some experience in this matter,” she said.

“Not enough, apparently.”

“And you do?” They’d danced around enough, and now she wanted to rip away the curtain he was hiding behind. “Why don’t you tell me what makes you such an authority on the subject of sexual attraction?”

He put down his mug. “Why and how men and women are sexually drawn to each other is one of my favorite topics. I’ve studied it endlessly.”

“Really? In what way?”

His eyes blazed. “I’m going to choose not to answer that, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that when a woman with a great body wears a conservative little suit, many men find it sexy as hell. They’re convinced that a temptress is hiding underneath that businesslike exterior, and they consider it a personal challenge to see if they can strew that uptight outfit all around the room, because nine times out of ten they’re right.”

She drew back, her heart pounding. “But not necessarily. Sometimes they’re wrong.”

“Sometimes,” he said softly.

“They would be wrong about me!”

He studied her for several long seconds. “Would they?”

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