A Dixie Christmas (22 page)

“Or what?”

“Or this.” He motioned to the back of the stage, and a chair was brought up. He pushed her down in the chair, gave a signal for the music to begin again, then began to dance for her. A slow, seductive, teasing strip tease that began with the removal of his jacket, then the unbuckling and tossing of his belt, the undoing of the button at his waist and the beginning of an unzip. She saw bare skin behind the zipper.

She stood suddenly, unable to let this go any farther. Lance didn’t like to dance, and he didn’t do it very well. He hated even more humbling himself publicly. The fact that he was doing it told her something important. She wasn’t sure what, but she couldn’t let him continue.

Taking the microphone from him, she told the crowd, “Stay tuned, folks. Lance and I have got to go have a little chat.” She winked at them meaningfully. “Maybe I have an early Christmas gift for him.”

Then she took Lance’s hand and said in a low voice, “Zip up, soldier. What I have to say requires total concentration, and I can’t do it with your navel blinking at me.”

He laughed and followed her willingly.

Behind them, the band began to play and the entertainment continued, without them.

Neither of them said anything. He was probably afraid of what she would say.

She could tell that he was surprised when she took him to the same employees’ lounge where they had been before.

And he was even more surprised when she locked the door.

The miracle was . . .

Lance stood with his back against the door, silent. This was it, he knew it was. Brenda was about to ring the death knell on their marriage. There was no hope.

But, whoa, Brenda was reaching behind to unzip her dress. When she turned, her dress slid down to the floor at her feet in a puddle of red silk. She wore only panty hose and red high heels. And the diamond heart pendant he’d given her on their wedding night light years ago. Leaning forward, giving him a spectacular view of her hanging breasts, she removed her panty hose. Then she put the high heels back on again.

“Brendie, what are you doing?” It was amazing he could even ask the question with the erotic buzz ringing in his ears, his heart racing like a souped up engine, and his cylinder about to take off.

“Finishing what you started,” she said.

At first he thought she meant that she wanted to finish making love, but then she pulled a hard backed chair to the middle of the floor, sat down and crossed her legs. “Well, big boy, show me what you can do.” With a wave of her hand she indicated his half-unzipped pants.

“You know I can’t dance worth spit.”

“Oh, I think you were doing very well.”

“Yeah?” He grinned and listened for the beat of the music they could hear in the distant banquet room. He did in fact dance for her, stripping one item of clothing at a time. When he was as naked as she was, and she’d made various remarks about his anatomy, all complimentary, he was about to pull her to her feet, but instead, he went down on one knee, and said, “Brenda, will you marry me, again?” He didn’t want this to be just about sex.

“Of course.”

“Whaaaat? What do you mean,
of course
?”

“Just that, honey.”

He pulled her up and put his arms around her. Once he had kissed her till she was as breathless as he was, he asked, “When did you decide this?”

“Probably five years ago, when I left, but I had to give you time—”

“Give me time?” he barked. “More like give you time to punish me.”

“Exactly.”

“But when did you decide I’d been punished enough?”

“At the A & P. When I discovered that you’d bought all the tabloids.”

“You liked that, huh?”

She nodded. “I did.”

After they made love
 . . .
really made love
 . . .
on the chaise, twice, he cuddled her against him, and asked, “When can we get remarried?”

“I was thinking Christmas Eve. It’s the only present Patti has been asking for.”

“Sounds good to me.”

As they dressed and prepared to go out to tell Patti and the others their news, Lance couldn’t help but ponder how hopeless he’d felt these past weeks
 . . .
till he’d gone to Tante Lulu for help. And he wondered if maybe, just maybe, the old lady did know something the rest of them didn’t.

As they left the room, hand in hand, he felt something in his jacket pocket press against his side. He knew exactly what it was. The St. Jude statue Tante Lulu had given him.

He began to ask Brenda, “Do you believe in—”

“—St. Jude?” she finished for him. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

In that instant, they both realized that they’d experienced their own form of Christmas miracle.

“I love you, Brendie.”

“I love you, Lance.”

And the voice in both their heads said, “Another job done!” Or maybe it was “Ho, ho, ho!”

(Continue reading for more information about Sandra Hill’s books and an excerpt from
’Twas the Night)

’Twas the Night

More Romantic Christmas Fun!

From Sandra Hill, Kate Holmes and Trish Jensen

Excerpt

Tuesday, evening, three days ’til Christmas Eve.

“Gotcha!”

With that single word, when her attention had wandered for all of a nanosecond, Sam cornered her in the back of the bus by sliding onto the bench seat next to her, thus trapping her against the window. What a tight squeeze it was, too, considering her bulk in the Santa suit!

“You are so juvenile,” she said with a sniff.

“Yep,” he agreed and adjusted his body closer to hers, something she would not have thought possible.

With all the movement he was making, he shook some of the boxes stacked behind. There was a chorus of “Suzie Gotta Pee,” “Suzie Gotta Pee,” “Suzie Gotta Pee,” “Suzie Gotta Pee” from some of the gifts left over from the last shelter stop.

“What the hell?” Sam exclaimed as he turned to straighten the talking boxes.

“Samuel Merrick!” Emma Smith chided from the seat in front of them. Emma, a large, husky woman, much like Camryn Manheim, but older, and brusquer, was a retired eighth grade teacher, who had taught them all. The one thing she could not abide was bad language and she heard every bit of it with her trusty Miracle-Ear hearing aid. “Tsk, tsk, tsk!”

Sam folded his hands in his lap and said, “Sorry, ma’am,” batting his eyelashes with exaggeration. Once Emma turned around with a huff, he ruined the good little boy effect by winking at Reba. God, that wink went through her like an erotic current. The man was lethal. And way too close.

She doubted whether pushing him would do much good; the determined gleam in his eyes said loud and clear that no quarter would be given by this soldier, not after her having blocked all his previous moves. Plus, he had about seventy-five pounds on her. She supposed she could scream for help, but what a sight that would be . . . nine overaged Santas to the rescue . . . assuming they would come to her rescue, considering how Sam was charming the liver spots off of them all . . . darn it.

Yep, Sam had her right where he wanted her, apparently, after a day and some odd hours of the pursuit-and-avoid game they’d been playing. Who am I kidding? It’s exactly twenty-eight hours and thirty-five minutes since The Good-bye Kiss . . . not that I’m keeping tabs. And, heavens to Betsy, why am I feeling all melty inside at the prospect of the louse’s having me where he wants me?

“Hello,” Sam said.

“Good-bye,” she said.

He smiled.

She frowned.

He took her hand in his.

She pulled her hand away from his.

It was all so childish. But they weren’t children anymore, and Reba couldn’t risk the powerful wave of pain that would surely accompany any association with Sam. She didn’t want to hear his phony excuses. She didn’t want to discuss her long-standing anger toward him. She didn’t want anything to do with the testosterone-oozing hunk. Stiffening her spine, she steeled herself to resist the allure he offered, and, yes, he was alluring, even as he merely sat beside her. Seemingly innocent. Never innocent.

He reached for her hand again, and she swatted him away, again, but harder this time. “Ouch,” he said with a grin.

“Cut it out, Sam. Just cut it out.”

The fury underlying her words must have struck a chord in him somewhere. He stilled. “What?”

“Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. In fact, don’t even look at me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you watch me all the time, just waiting for a chance to pounce.”

“Hey, I do not pounce.” He studied her carefully as if trying to figure out some puzzle. Then, he concluded in typical Dumb Man fashion, “You are being really intense here, sweetheart. That has got to be a good sign. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t react so strongly, right? You must not want me near you because you fear the temptation. Yep, a very good sign.”

“Either that, or you repulse me.”

He appeared to give that serious consideration, then decided, “No, no, no! I won’t consider that possibility.”

“Stay away from me, Sam. I’m not one of your groupies. I’m not your . . . anything.”

The vehemence of her response seemed to stun him, but then he immediately switched to irritation. “Groupies? Are you nuts? I have never been into the Blues’ groupie scene.”

“I wasn’t talking about the Blue Angels. I was talking about you, Mister Egomaniac.”

“Me? You are suffering from a huge misconception, honey. I don’t have groupies.”

“Oh, Sam, you’ve always had groupies.”

He threw his hands in the air. “This is a ridiculous conversation. I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about you. I want to talk about us.”

“Here’s a news flash. There is no us.”

The sadness on his face tore at her soul, but at least he had the good judgment to say nothing for a few moments. He must have sensed her growing agitation and realized that the best thing he could do was sit silently next to her and let her grow accustomed to his presence. Which she would never do. Not now. Not ever. No way. Please, God!

When did it turn so warm in here? Betty must have jacked up the heat.

When did Sam start wearing aftershave, or was that tangy evergreen scent just a residue of soap on his skin? Heck it was probably just the greenery that decorated each of the windows in the bus. How pathetic was she?

When would she stop noticing every little thing about him? The intriguing laugh lines that bracketed the edges of his blue eyes and the corners of his firm mouth. Or perhaps they were sun crinkles, living in Florida as he did much of the year. Then, there was his rigid military demeanor, even when he stretched his long legs out into the aisle, or joked with the senior Santas, or, Saints forbid, gazed at her with a longing that was anything but soldierly. And, criminey, he had a body perfectly honed to suit the military and a grown woman’s humming hormones.

She must have been more exhausted than she’d realized to have allowed Sam to slip past her watchful guard. It was only eight p.m. But she’d been up since five. In the midst of some stress over the weather conditions, they’d performed two shows today, in Sarasota Springs, New York, and Burlington, Vermont, after which they’d picked up Stan and his lady friend, Dana . . . rather, George’s friend, Dana . . . or was it both? In any case, she was on the way to the wedding, too. That, on top of JD and the Amish woman, Callie, hopping onto the bus this morning. They were becoming a regular reunion commune. Right now, JD and Callie were sitting on the front seat of the bus, with Stan and Dana on the opposite side. The two men were chatting amiably across the aisle, while the women stared pensively out the darkened windows.

“That was not a good-bye kiss. No way was that a good-bye kiss!” Sam declared, out of the blue, jarring her out of her mental wanderings. Good Lord, the man was resuming a day-old conversation, as if it had never been interrupted.