Father Christmas (15 page)

“
Now have fun,” she
suggested bluntly, swallowing her amusement at his dour
expression.

He was clearly at a loss. Having fun did not
come naturally to him. He needed help.

She filled her hands with bits of foam
rubber and flung them up at his nose. Most of them missed his face,
but they struck the real target she was aiming at: his
composure.

His frown intensified even more, cutting a
sharp crease across the bridge of his nose and tightening the
corners of his mouth. But Molly sensed laughter behind his harsh
demeanor, laughter that needed only the slightest bit of coaxing to
come out.

She rose to her feet, swaying slightly, and
hurled two more fistfuls of foam at him. This time, a plush foam
ball smacked him in the chin.

Her memory flashed on a picture of the way
he’d nailed the pick-pocket on Dudley Avenue. She recalled his
smooth, swift lunge, so fast the punk scarcely knew what was
happening to him. And then she was the target of John Russo’s speed
and grace as he gathered up handfuls of foam-rubber and strafed her
with them, right hand and left and right again, both equally
accurate and all of his foam missiles hitting her. The laughter
she’d been hoping for burst out of him, dark and devilish, as he
pelted her with a barrage of foam.

Giggling, she staggered backward, lost her
footing and fell. He descended to his knees, sweeping armfuls of
foam off the floor of the pit and attempting to bury her with
them.

She let out a tiny shriek, not loud enough
to wake Michael, and scrambled away. He grabbed her ankle and
dragged her back toward him, through the lush carpet of foam. She
bubbled with laughter, squirming and resisting, then twisting onto
her side and hurling chunks of foam at him. Whatever she tossed at
him he swatted away or tossed right back.

He was smiling. Really smiling. Smiling so
broadly his eyes shimmered with fire and his cheeks creased with
dimples, and all the pain and worry of his burdens seemed to have
melted from him. Laughter rose from his throat, low and delicious.
Flecks of foam rubber lodged in his hair.

She reared back to throw another handful of
foam at him, but he caught her wrist in his hand and blocked her
throw. She couldn’t breathe, she was laughing so hard...or maybe
what made her breathless was the firm clasp of his fingers around
her arm, the nearness of him as he pressed her back down into the
resilient floor of the pit.

He didn’t let go of her wrist. He just
hovered above her, his eyes blinding her with their dark beauty,
his smile changing, becoming less bright, more thoughtful.

She was still panting. So was he. The air
seemed electric between them, and she knew something dangerous
would happen if she didn’t prevent it. She was going to have to
slide her wrist from his grip and sit up, and congratulate him on
having cut loose for a few minutes. She was going to have to take
control.

But this was all about ceding control,
wasn’t it? It was all about tossing off one’s responsibility for a
few precious minutes.

And he was still above her, his face so
close to hers.

She reached up and plucked
a shred of foam from a silky lock of hair above his brow. He seemed
to hold his breath, and his smile vanished.
Enough,
she warned herself—she’d taken enough of a
chance, touching his hair, letting him touch her arm, lying on her
back practically beneath him as he leaned over her. She couldn’t
let this continue.

Yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. There
was another bit of foam snagged in his hair just above his ear, and
when she reached for it her fingertips brushed against his earlobe.
She didn’t exactly see him flinch, but she felt it. She sensed it
in his nearly inaudible sigh, in the altered angle of his jaw, the
motion of his fingers against the skin of her inner wrist. Not a
trace of his smile remained.

Molly wasn’t smiling, either. Somehow, this
had become deadly serious.

Bowing, he touched his mouth to hers.

She should have known this was coming. She
should have known as soon as she’d invited him into the pit, as
soon as she’d thrown the first bits of foam at him, as soon as
she’d tried to crawl away and he’d hauled her back. She should have
known.

She
had
known, and she could have brought the game to a
halt. But she’d wanted his kiss too much.

His lips covered hers, cautious and
relentless all at once. He exercised restraint, yet his hunger
seared her. His fingers moved against the bare skin of her arm and
then glided down, interlacing with her fingers. The pressure of his
palm against hers unleashed a rush of heat through her.

His palm. His lips and his palm. That was
enough to make her crazy with longing.

Her mind told her this was a kiss and
nothing more. But her heart told her it was infinitely more. It was
John Russo, a man who had been hurt but who refused to use his hurt
as an excuse to behave badly. A man she hadn’t stopped thinking of
since the first time she’d seen him, armed and dangerous and
talking about his son as if he wasn’t even aware of how armed and
dangerous he was. A man whose kiss could make her want to laugh and
weep. He was a man who laughed too rarely—and probably never wept
at all.

Need, hot and throbbing, surged through her
as he moved his lips on hers, light yet demanding, devouring with
gentle nips. She longed for him to claim her mouth, to open her and
take her. She yearned for him to sink down onto her, settling
between her legs so she could feel the full potency of him. She
ached for him in a way she’d never known before, heedless of all
the many messy complications that could arise if she didn’t regain
her control very soon.

Not too soon, though, she prayed, and her
prayer was answered when he lowered himself, arranging his body
over hers, and skimmed his tongue along the edge of her teeth. She
sighed, alarmed at how grateful she was, and opened her mouth.

He groaned. It was a quiet, feral sound,
born somewhere deep in his soul. She wondered whether he considered
kissing her an irresponsible act—and if he did, whether he cared.
Maybe kissing her was just as meaningful—or meaningless—to him as
jumping in the foam pit had been. For all she knew, he might think
of this as just one more way to abandon responsibility.

Even that notion didn’t make her want to
stop. Not when his weight was warm upon her, his kiss deepening,
his tongue tangled in erotic combat with hers. Not when he
tightened his grip on her hand and plunged his other hand into her
hair, curling his fingers to hold her head steady so he could kiss
her more thoroughly. Not when he pressed between her thighs and
groaned again, his heat hard against hers.

He wanted her, maybe as much as she wanted
him. As he withdrew and then thrust his tongue again, as he rocked
her body with his, as he slid his chest against her until the tips
of her breasts grew almost painfully tight, she wondered if he was
as lost as she was. This was a man who lived his life within narrow
boundaries, who’d once made a mistake with a woman and was trying,
all these years later, to make up for that one mistake. How much
could he really let go?

Not as much as she could.

She had been imagining this moment, dreaming
about it, for too many days, too many nights. Now that the reality
of it arrived, her heart was bounding ahead, striving toward the
next moment. One kiss, and she was wishing for things that couldn’t
be, that shouldn’t be.

He was a cop, the father of a student. He
was a man under enormous pressure, a man who wouldn’t know how to
forgive himself for doing the wrong thing.

She tried to say his name, but her voice
emerged in a tremulous moan. He freed her lips, breaking the
kiss—but then denied her the ability to speak by brushing his mouth
against the curve at the base of her throat. All she could do was
moan again.

He lifted his head. She opened her eyes and
they slowly came into focus on him. Damn, but he was beautiful to
look at. Even more beautiful now, when he was aroused.

“
John?” She could barely
speak. Her voice was ragged, her breath shallow. Her neck tingled
where his lips had branded it.

He flexed his fingers against hers,
seductively. She had never before considered the flesh between her
fingers an erogenous zone, but when he slid his fingers against
that flesh, it made her think of another part of him sliding
against another part of her, with warmth and strength and
possessive energy. A warm shudder rippled down through her, making
her want to arch against him.

It took all her willpower to hold herself
still. “We really shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured, sounding
strange to herself, her voice faint, lacking conviction.

He released her hand and propped himself up
on his arms. She peered up into his shadowed face. The smile that
had illuminated his eyes was gone, replaced by layers of caution.
He held her gaze for a moment, then averted his eyes and pushed
himself off her, leaning back on his haunches. “I’m sorry,” he
said, addressing the rope railing of the foam pit.

“
No.” It didn’t matter
that kissing her student’s father was wrong. She didn’t want him to
be sorry about it.
She
certainly
wasn’t sorry.

He shoved himself to his feet. After a
moment’s hesitation, he extended his hands to her to help her up.
She sat without his assistance, then took his proffered hand and
let him haul her to her feet. If she felt wobbly this time, it had
nothing to do with the spongy foam beneath her feet.

He released her as soon as she had her
balance, and ran his hand across his face as if to rub away the
effects of the kiss. He continued to avoid her gaze, glancing over
at his slumbering son and then back at the pit, at the long
indentation where their bodies had rearranged the loose bits of
foam. “Don’t take it out on Mike, okay?” he said.

“
Take
what
out on him?”
The fact that I’m
suffering from incurable lust for you? The fact that I regret
having stopped you, and I’m as frustrated as hell, and you can’t
even bear to look me in the eye?

He overcame his aversion to her, although it
appeared to cost him. Sliding his hand under her chin, he angled
her face until her eyes met his, and stared at her, as if willing
her to understand so he wouldn’t have to spell anything out. Her
will was as stubborn as his, though. She refused to nod. If he had
something to say, he’d have to say it.

He did. “I was out of line.”

“
Out of line? What is
this, an etiquette class?” She laughed, more from anxiety than
because she actually thought John’s statement was funny.

“
No, Molly. Not
etiquette.” At least he had the courage to continue staring into
her eyes, allowing her to see him. She couldn’t read much in his
face beside discomfort and regret, but that was enough.

Sighing, she ordered herself to gather what
little poise she had. He felt bad about what had just happened. He
felt guilty. He had cut loose and let go and been irresponsible,
and he wasn’t about to forgive himself or let her grant him
absolution. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, John. The only way you
could have been out of line would be if...” she drifted off, aware
of what she was on the verge of confessing.

“
If what?”

She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.
She was going to prove to him that losing control wasn’t a sin. “If
I said no. Which I didn’t.”

A hint of the light she’d seen in his eyes
returned, and he lifted his hand again, this time to cup her cheek.
As soon as she felt his palm against her skin he dropped his hand,
then turned away, swinging one leg and then the other over the rope
wall of the foam pit. He held the roped low for Molly to climb out,
and offered his hand. She refused to take it, climbing out without
losing her balance.

As soon as they were both out of the pit, he
crossed to his boots and laced them on. He didn’t speak, and she
wasn’t surprised. What else could he say? He wanted her, and he
didn’t want to want her. And if his current mood remained, if he
ever wanted her again he would do nothing about it.

For the sake of his son? she wondered. Or
for his own sake?

Still without speaking, he walked over to
the corner where he’d laid Michael, hunkered down, and nudged the
boy’s shoulder. Michael made a whimpering sound and rolled over.
“Time to go, Mike,” he murmured.

“
Okay,” Michael said
sleepily.

John waited until Michael was sitting, then
straightened up. “Do you want some help with the food?” he asked,
motioning with his head toward their forgotten picnic.

No, Molly didn’t want any help with the
food. The only help she wanted was in breaking down the wall John
seemed so determined to keep in place around him. Perhaps she’d
slipped through a crevice in it for a brief interlude, but she had
no doubt that the minute he left the Children’s Garden he would be
hard at work plastering that crack, making it waterproof and
rock-tough, like himself.

For those few precious moments in the pit,
she actually might have reached him. But now he was gone again,
withdrawing, taking his child and pulling back. Being
responsible.

Maybe she ought to be grateful. But she
wasn’t.

“
HIS LAWYER CALLED ME
AGAIN,” Abigail’s mother was yammering at Molly. “I don’t even know
where
he
is. The lawyer won’t
tell me. I told his lawyer to call my lawyer, but he never listens.
The whole thing is making me nuts.”