Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas) (7 page)

When had their game turned so serious? He was surprised to find himself under a dimming shop light, its hum and snap competing with the howling wind outside. In his mind he’d been in the shadowy pub with Carrie, claiming her for the Crown.

She reached for her glasses, but Griffin stopped her with a quick “don’t.” He had a need to see her brown eyes and gold-tipped lashes unmasked. That chocolate morsel at the corner of her kiss-reddened mouth remained intriguing. Her cheeks were flushed, and he could feel her heart race under his palm.

Griffin couldn’t seem to move his hand away. But he was an English gentleman, wasn’t he? He put the molded cup back up where it belonged and took his hand away from where it didn’t.

“Tell me what you want us to do,” he repeated, straightening Carrie’s sweater.

She sat back in her chair and blurred a bit around the edges. “Not until you tell me what you’re apologizing for. Can I—oops,
may
I have my glasses now?”

“All right.” He picked up his own frames and put them on. She was in sharp definition now, and he could practically see her raised quills.
He who speaks first loses
. He counted to sixty, but nothing happened. “It seems we’re at an impasse.” He wasn’t really sorry—how could he be? But it had seemed like the expected thing to say.

“
I’m
not sorry, and I’m the one who should be.” She was angry. No, irritated.

“Why should you be? I rather thought we were enjoying each other.”

“Were we? Then what did you mean?”

Griffin shrugged. “You know how we Brits are. Polite to a fault. There are classic Monty Python sketches to prove it. Of course, the Canadians have us beat. They are the true gentlemen when they’re not playing hockey.” He was stepping in more muck with every sentence.

Her mouth twisted. “Hockey?”

“What I mean to say is that if my kiss in any way offended you—if I overstepped my bounds or touched you where I shouldn’t have—and I clearly did and deserve a thorough tongue-lashing—” Oh, God. Worse and worse. He knew just where he’d like Carrie’s tongue to lash and shifted with discomfort in the old beach chair. “Anyway, consider it a pre-emptive apology. I’m bound to do something else any minute now.”

“That’s what I had in mind,” Carrie muttered.

“Sorry? I mean, I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

She fluffed up her already fluffy hair. “You must feel triumphant. I was easy.”

“Well, you couldn’t help yourself. It was my innate charm that did you in. And clearly your dog likes me.” Griffin felt it safer to stay in character than deal with the real thread of attraction that was between them.

Carrie Moore wasn’t his type at all. He’d always gone for tall, willowy blue-eyed blondes. Like Alice. England was chock-full of them. All his previous girlfriends could have been his sister.

Gah. There was something Freudian about that Griffin didn’t want to examine any closer.

Carrie’s arms were folded over her breasts. He knew now she was not quite as well-endowed as she appeared, but that made no difference to him. She was smallish everywhere, except for her big brown eyes, which were glaring at him. She wasn’t thin, though, but rounded nicely in all the right places. Like a compact little fire hydrant. Sturdy. Dependable.

He’d never tell her
that
.

“Don’t be cross with me, please. It’s Christmas.”

Except it wasn’t in their fantasy. She was in Lower Topsham for her summer vacation.

Griffin switched tactics. “Pardon me, I’m confused. That kiss has gone straight to my head like champagne. I say, do you plan on going to the church fete this August?” he asked.

She pointed a finger at him like a cranky governess. He’d had a few of those—somehow his father never got around to paying them. “Stop.”

“Sorry? I mean, ‘what’ as you Americans would say.”

“You don’t need any more practice to charm the pan—um, to succeed with women. That was very impressive. All of it.”

Griffin felt a blush coming on. “It’s good to know I haven’t completely atrophied.”

Truer words were never spoken. His cock was rampant. He hadn’t been this aroused in a while.

Not even with Alice, he realized, and he’d planned to
marry
her. Had he simply been going through the motions, doing what was expected? They’d understood each other and the milieu they inhabited. Got along perfectly well, never had spats. Griffin had loved her, hadn’t he? He’d been crushed when she’d told him about the goddamned Marquis of Ellingwood. Ellingwood was older, rich, settled—the last two of which Griffin might never achieve.

Was it his pride or his heart that suffered? For the first time since Alice broke their engagement, he wasn’t sure.

Carrie was tugging her jumper down and fidgeting with the fitting of her bra straps. He’d like to help relieve her of both.

Well, why not? They were stuck here until tomorrow. There were hours left in the night. They could make a pact to never breathe a word to Aunt Rosemary. His aunt would not approve of him taking advantage of her employee.

Perhaps they could take advantage of each other. Griffin sensed Carrie had gone through a bit of a dry spell herself. They were both adults, and would be fibbing if they claimed to be uninterested in the other.

He reached across the workbench and took Carrie’s busy hand. “Let me guess what you were going to say.”

“I forget. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

She was a poor liar.

“I think you remember. You’re just too shy to say.”

Carrie rolled her beautiful eyes. “No one would ever call me shy. I almost always speak my mind unless the truth would be too painful for a person to deal with.”

“You’re kind as well as cute.”

She wrinkled her nose, looking even cuter. “Really, why don’t you go back to your papers? I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to go back to my papers. I want to go back to the blanket with you and undress you. Slowly. Unzip those boots and lower your black stockings.”

“Leggings.”

“Whatever. I’m not a hosiery expert. You might be wearing a tiny thong underneath all that black.”

Carrie choked. “I’m not.”

“But I want to see for myself.” Griffin did not generally announce his intentions like this. In fact, he rarely had intentions, and never, ever gave them a running commentary. He was a very buttoned-up sort of fellow. But tonight he was infused with some unexpected enthusiasm, and decided to let it show, even if the conversation embarrassed them both. Carrie’s cheeks were already scarlet.

What would it be to have her naked and writhing under him, flushed everywhere? He’d whisper all sorts of naughty things against her ear and she’d beg and scream his name—

Good God. What was happening to him? He never even looked at porn.

Much.

He squeezed her hand and continued his uncertain path. “I’ll look, perhaps touch. You’ll be ready for me, wanting to take off that unfortunate jumper.”

She tried to withdraw her hand. “Unfortunate? It’s brand new! My parents sent it for Christmas.”

“I’m sure they love you, but it’s so . . . beige. If you were mine to dress, you’d be in jewel tones. Sapphire. Emerald. Ruby. Something bright that reflects your personality. You’re a little firecracker. I can feel the sparks from here.”

“How much wine did you have to drink?” Carrie asked suspiciously.

“No more than you. It isn’t the wine talking.” What it was, he didn’t recognize himself. “You’ll stretch like a little cat while I pull off the jumper, and that soft brassiere will be unhooked.” Griffin didn’t say how; he’d never been much good with one-handed unhooking. Alice had gotten very impatient and done for herself.

No. Mustn’t think of Alice.

Alice who? That was better.

Carrie’s eyebrows were knitting as if she didn’t truly appreciate the imagery he was attempting to paint. Could she not see herself up against the boat cushions, legs splayed, eyelashes fluttering? Of course he’d have to go upstairs again and fetch the cushions, and he didn’t want to leave her. Griffin circled her palm with his thumb and was gratified to see her twitch. A bloke he knew told him the palm-thumb thing was always surprisingly successful.

“And then?” she said. Was it his imagination or was she a bit breathless?

“I’ll kiss you. Everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

Griffin nodded. “Oh, yes.” He might not be able to unhook bras, but no one had ever complained about his aptitude when it came to cunnilingus.

Carrie looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead she tugged at his hand. They stood, facing each other, and Carrie reached up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Let’s blow this popstand,” she whispered. This was an Americanism he’d never heard before, but who was he to argue? It sounded as if it had numerous possibilities, especially the blowing part.

“Your wish is my command.”

“Yes, I think it should be, for once. I never get to order people around.”

Griffin was fairly sure she got her way most of the time anyway. “Lay on, Macduff.”

To his consternation, she dragged him to the Jaguar. “I don’t live too far away from here.”

Ah, so they were back to pretense. Maybe that was better in case things did not go well. They could plead ignorance, that it was their doppelgangers who were engaged in a torrid affair in a postcard-perfect English village.

For Griffin was feeling very torrid, even if it was pounding snow outside.

He got in behind the steering wheel, grateful he was not really going to drive anywhere. He was still getting used to the Evoque and driving on the wrong side of the road. Mostly he traveled around Boston on the T and avoided the crazy Massachusetts drivers.

“Vroom vroom.” He sounded like an idiot.

Griffin turned to Carrie, who had her face turned upward as if feeling the evening breeze. “Fitz loves to ride with the window open. He must be in heaven with the top down.”

“Er, yes.” Apparently they were both idiots.

“Look! It’s there on the right. The cottage with the roses climbing over the door.”

“Very charming.”

“It is, isn’t it? It’s just where I’ve always wanted to live.”

Carrie wouldn’t care for Archer Hall, which had no roses whatsoever and very little charm left. She opened the door and paused for the fantasy Fitz to jump out. “Good boy. Don’t be mad at me, though. I’m going to lock you in the scullery.”

She disappeared into the tiny loo for what seemed like eons. When she came out, Griffin went in, armed with his shaving kit. He brushed his teeth for about five minutes, combed his hair, cleared his throat.

It had been six months since he’d made love to a woman and not his hand. If Carrie would let him, that is. She’d perked up for the “kissing everywhere” part, but Griffin hoped she would be imbued with the Christmas spirit and generously allow him to find his own satisfaction, too. If not, he’d take what he could get and call it good.

He’d spent a semester in Italy studying architecture and art, and had picked up some amorous techniques as well. They were a bit rusty—Alice hadn’t liked anything too unusual.

Alice who, he reminded himself.

Taking a deep breath, he left the tiny water closet without knocking himself unconscious on the doorframe. The carriage house was deadly quiet except for the incessant ping of ice pellets on the windows. Griffin walked around the car to their picnic spot.

And nearly tripped over his own feet.

Carrie lay in the middle of the plaid blanket. She hadn’t waited for him to unzip and unroll and unhook but had taken the initiative to remove every stitch herself. Her eyes were closed, her red plastic glasses atop the neat pile of clothing resting on a corner of the blanket.

Griffin didn’t want to take his glasses off. He felt blinded already. She was so—

Not perfect, because her body was not Barbie doll-like in anyway. Of course Barbie was not perfect or even at all anatomically correct, just a long leggy blonde that had always met Griffin’s mastaburtory criteria. What was the word he was searching for?

Real. Carrie was
real
—small breasts, broad hips, a bit of a tummy. The little mole at her mouth had company here and there on her golden skin. Her legs were muscular, and Griffin wondered if she’d been a gymnast in high school.

He didn’t know a thing about her, really.

“This is it. What are you waiting for?”

She was trying to sound tough, but Griffin heard a touch of vulnerability.

“You’ve taken my breath away. I don’t think I can walk.”

“Bullshit. Very nice bullshit, but bullshit all the same.”

“You really are quite lovely, you know.”

Carrie cracked one eye open. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s much better if we just get down to business.”

Much better for who? Whom? Griffin shook his head free of grammatical inconsistencies.

“I’m afraid I cannot be rushed.” Untrue when all he wanted to do was rip his clothes off and fall upon her like a rabid beast.

“Well, no one wants you to
rush
. Feel free to take your time.” She folded her hands over her navel, rather like a stone effigy.

Well, the pressure was on and he’d asked for it. No, begged for it, bragging that he could satisfy her.

Everywhere.

He reached under his jumper to unbuckle his belt.

“What are you doing?” Both her eyes were open now.

“You look so comfortable in your natural state, I thought I’d join you.”

“Nobody said anything about you getting undressed. It was just me.”

Griffin pulled the belt from its loops. “It was just I,” he corrected reflexively. “I didn’t think it required discussion. When one partner is naked, one naturally assumes the other will follow suit.”

“We’re only kissing,” Carrie said with stubborn determination.

“Yes, of course. I kiss so much more efficiently when I have no clothes on. I suppose,” he sighed, “that I can remain dressed if you wish it.”

Please no please no.

Carrie rubbed her pointed little pixie chin. “I guess it’s only fair for me to see you, too.”

The rest of his clothes came off in a flash. Out of boredom, Griffin had been going to the gym in his building, so he had nothing to be ashamed of. However, he wasn’t quite as obsessed with his body as other men his age. Quite frankly, he thought those Jersey Shore people were freaks. He lowered himself to the blanket and wished it were not wool.