A Season of Miracles (11 page)

They headed out the door. He hailed a cab, then paused after opening the car door. “Want to see where I live?”

“Now?” she asked. She sounded a little breathless.

“It's not that late, only nine.”

“Well, I, but—”

“Take a chance,” he said softly. “Do something strictly on instinct.”

“If I were going to go on pure instinct, I'd run as fast as I could right now.”

“In what direction?”

“Any direction—away from you.” Her words were wry, but she was smiling.

“Then, you really should come see where I live.”

She was going to say no to him; he was certain. She didn't.

“I guess it is early,” she said, and slid into the cab.

He took that as her agreement and slid in behind her, giving the cabbie his own address.

When they entered his apartment, he was suddenly anxious for her approval. And for the first time in a very long time, he studied his own surroundings. The floors were hardwood, but covered with thick, rich Persian area rugs. He especially liked the one in front of the hearth. Rich cobalt and crimson, it depicted medieval horsemen racing through dense forests. Tapestry pillows still lay at one end; he had come home and read last night before going to bed, trying to forget the strange things the tarot reader had said to him.

He liked leather—brown leather, well upholstered, comfortable—and books. The room was lined with bookcases. He loved collecting first printings and rare editions, and his two prize pieces were a very old almanac with notations in it by Thomas Jefferson, and an even older New England prayer book with notations by the fire-and-brimstone Puritan minister Cotton Mather. The art on the walls tended to be old or historic, as well; he had a lithograph of the first subway system in the city near the floor-to-ceiling windows that opened to the terrace, prints of works by Raphael, Titian and Michelangelo, and oils he had purchased at shows from contemporary or lesser known artists.

He had opted for a view of the river and the Brooklyn skyline beyond, and a very contemporary entertainment system. He liked music, old and new, and very much appreciated being surrounded by it. The fireplace was real, and after he had taken Jillian's coat in the foyer, he went straight to the fireplace, surprised to find that he wasn't his customary competent self. His hands trembled as he set the blaze. She followed him into the room, staring into the rising flames.

“I had the strangest dream about a fire last night,” she told him.

He held very still. Was she telling him not to get any stereotypical romantic notions? He turned, still hunkered down as he stoked the fire, and looked at her. “Should I put it out?”

She flushed, shaking her head. “No, no, I love a fire on a cold night. I was watching you and just thinking…it was such a strange night.”

“Yes, it
was
a strange night. Well, except for the fact that I don't really believe in ‘strange.'”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I still think someone set us both up with the tarot card reader. Eventually I'll find out what went on.”

“You're not worried about me, are you?”

“Worried about you? In what way?”

She walked over and bent down by him. “You know,” she told him softly, “I'm not at all delicate. I don't have the blinding desire to seize the company in my own two hands, but I'm not a doormat, either. I'm opinionated, and very strong and determined.”

A slow smile curled his mouth. “I don't doubt it.”

“Good.”

She straightened and walked to the windows, looking at the view beyond the glass. “The lights twinkle like a million stars.”

He walked over to her. She smelled of soft and subtle perfume, an evocative scent that seemed to reach out and infiltrate his senses.

“Do you like the view?”

“It's incredible.”

He stood just behind her. “I like to go out on the terrace, preferably when it's a bit warmer, lie back and look up. All you see are the stars, and sometimes it's quiet enough that you can imagine all Manhattan gone, and that there's nothing but the earth, the air and the stars.”

“Nice. I get that out at the estate in Connecticut. Well, you'll see. So much goes on out there as we get closer to Christmas.” She stopped staring out the window, turned and smiled at him. “I love Christmas at the estate. Everything seems possible. Everyone is relaxed. And there's something so special about the lights and the music and…”

“And?” he prompted.

“I don't know. There's something about Christmastime. All things seem possible.”

“Like it's a time for miracles?” he murmured.

“Ah, so skeptical,” she said.

“Not skeptical. Just realistic.”

“A doubter,” she judged teasingly, her eyes still alight. “Well, that's the whole point. You have to believe in miracles for them to be able to happen. Let's go out.”

“It's cold.”

“I've been cold before.”

“Out there, it's very, very cold.”

“Ah, but you'll be there. To warm me.”

The length of his body tightened and his heartbeat quickened. “It's not just cold. On a night like tonight, it's freezing.”

Her eyes remained on his. An enigmatic smile still curled her lips. “I'm willing to take a chance. And besides, you have a fire burning in here.”

“All right. We'll go out. If you wish.”

He opened the locks and slid open the glass. They stepped out.

The wind blew fiercely, enhancing the coldness of the evening, as he had known it would. The location of the building along the river allowed for a strange tunnel of air. Snow had begun to fall. Light, dusting flakes, but wet and bone-chilling. The flakes whirled around them, as if they were standing inside a snow globe. The heavens really were alive with stars that night. A beautiful full moon burst out from behind the snow clouds, then was swallowed again by the dark mist and the snow.

The wind began to moan.

He slipped an arm around her. “Okay, we came out. Now we should go in. You must be freezing.”

She turned in his arms, looking up, about to speak. Her eyes were a brilliant green, her lips curved in a smile. He felt suddenly humbled, but as if he had known her forever, as if she had listened to his hurts and his dreams, as if they had planned a lifetime together. As if he were sworn to buffer her from the winds and the snow.

As if she knew all his strengths, all his weaknesses.

He lowered his head slowly, giving her every chance to move. But she didn't. And when his lips touched hers, the heat of a thousand fires seemed to burn through him.

He burned….

Against the wind, the snow, the cloud-misted darkness, they seemed to spin. Their kiss deepened; the fire surged. She was stunning, soft, evocative, and more. In some strange way, older than the fierce wind sweeping around them, she was his.

He lifted her.

Her eyes met his again.

And she knew it.

Confidence returned. A touch of arrogance, as well. He felt as if he had conquered the world. He lifted her in his arms, then turned from the wind, from the blinding snow, and entered the apartment, slid the glass closed with his foot and walked with her to the fire, where he lowered them both to the ground.

The heat of the flames shot around them. The rug was plush and soft, and the pillows seemed to surround them, along with the crimson light and warmth of the blaze.

Moments later, he could barely remember their having shed their clothing.

 

The minute Daniel entered his apartment, he knew he wasn't alone. His visitor didn't move at first, nor was there much light. But he knew he wasn't alone, and he knew who had come.

He pulled his scarf from around his neck, irritated, as he walked in. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Why? I told you not to come here.”

“Why?”

“Because this is my home.”

“Surely one friend can visit another in his home.”

“Not mine.”

“Does that mean that we're not friends, or that your friends don't come here?” his visitor taunted.

Daniel walked to the bar on the left side of the room, casting his visitor a wary glance as he poured himself a stiff Scotch. “Go home, go away. There's nothing else to get from me. Not here. Not now.”

“I didn't come to
get
things.”

“Then, why?”

“I'm trying to figure out just what it is that
you
want to get.”

Daniel arched a brow, lifting his glass. “And why do you care? Money is your motivator. You always told me so.”

“How many people tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

Daniel swallowed his drink in one gulp. “Go home.”

“You don't know the half of what I've done for you, or what I'm willing to do.”

“I don't want anything.”

The visitor moved close. Looked into his eyes.

“Oh, Daniel, you liar. You awful liar.”

“Don't—”

“Don't send me home, Daniel,” his visitor said softly, very softly. “We have so much to talk about.”

Her words trailed off as she reached up and delicately touched his cheek.

Then she walked past him.

Waiting…for him to follow.

He poured another drink. Stood shaking his head. With grim determination, he tossed the drink down.

Then he turned and followed.

Just as she had known he would.

 

The first thing Jillian saw when she opened her eyes was one of her shoes.

Then she remembered where she was. And why. She blinked, not sure that she hadn't been dreaming, that she hadn't totally lost her mind.

It had been a wonderful night. Wonderful. Incredible. Beyond imagination. He was…Wonderful. Incredible. Beyond imagination.

Her mind didn't seem able to function beyond those words of assessment. She still felt warm.

And insane. Totally insane. But last night it had felt as if she'd been…compelled. Obsessed. On fire. And as if staying was not only totally natural but inevitable.

The fire had died down, and she would have been cold, if not for him. Stretched out beside her, he provided enough body warmth to dispel any sense of chill. But time had passed, morning had come, and with it, some sense of reason. She jerked up, then realized that he had been awake, lying beside her, not moving lest he disturb her.

Those dark blue eyes were on her looking grave. He seemed far less the corporate man she had surveyed from a distance. Instead, literally stripped down to the essentials as he was, he was incredibly real and down to earth.

The insanity of the situation washed over her, and she scrambled to her feet searching somewhat awkwardly for her clothing. “I—I can't believe I did this.”

“You didn't rob a bank or commit murder,” he told her, still watching her.

“No, of course not, but…”

“But?”

She paused at his tone, looking at him.

“You're sorry about last night?” he asked.

She smiled, aware of the awful tumble of her hair, her arms locked around her chest. “Not at all. I haven't had such a wonderful…well, I haven't had such a lovely evening in a long time. Thank you very much. But neither have I ever been so completely irresponsible.”

“Irresponsible?”

“I'm well over twenty-one, of course, and I've always done what I've chosen to do, but I live with Henry and Grandfather, and they're both like a pair of old women. They worry if I'm late and don't call.”

“Oh, that.”

Sleek, confident, he was rising, stretching. She caught her breath. He was perfect, and she was losing her mind. She barely knew him. He was the shark brought in to devour them all. After an evening of, well, perfect, total decadence, she was in love. Or wild infatuation. Or something.

“I should have called.”

He stood before her, smoothed back a lock of her hair, and studied her eyes, as if he were even more surprised than she was that these strange, gripping emotions should have survived the sunrise.

“I called.”

“What?” she asked sharply.

“I called the house and told Henry we'd stopped for a drink, that the snow was coming down hard, and that you might be staying. He agreed that you should stay here, rather than brave the weather.”

“Oh.” He'd taken an awful lot into his own hands.