Christmas Getaway (9 page)

“Well, thank you,” she murmured, her eyes closing. “You're all right yourself. Which I find a little surprising, considering that Molly warned me that you…” She opened her eyes, stared at him.

“Yes?” he prompted softly.

“Can be a wee bit difficult to get along with.”

He grinned. “I'll have to rib her for that when I see her.”

“Why'd you quit the force?” she asked suddenly. “If it's not too personal.”

“Needed a break.”

“Ah. And yet here I am, another job.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You're a guest.”

“Right.” She sighed, sounding more content. “Suddenly, I could fall asleep on a bed of rocks.”

He was glad she was calming down. “Go right ahead. Tell me if you need another blanket or anything.” He settled back.

“Are you going to sleep in that chair?”

“For a while. Then I'll head to bed. I'll be just down the hall if you need something.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, “this is silly. Nothing's going to happen, and I'm being a ninny. Go get in your own bed before you give yourself a backache sitting up in that chair. I think I've figured out this much about you—you'll tell me you're going to your own bed to lull me to sleep and then you'll stay in the chair all night.”

“I'm used to snoozing in far worse places.”

“Still.” She waved a hand, indicating he should head toward the hallway. “As you said, I can yell if I get spooked.”

A coyote let out a long howl, the sound curling into the room with intensity. Jean's eyes went wide. Sam tried not to smile.

“I thought you didn't have any neighbors close by.”

He shook his head. “That's not a neighborhood pooch. Coyote.”

“Coyote!” She sat straight up. “He's much too close to the house!”

“You weren't planning on taking a walk, were you?” He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, unable to wipe the grin off his face. “He wants no part of you, anyway, even if you did go outside.”

“Well, I'm not planning to. You don't have to worry about that!”

She flipped over, her long hair trailing across the pillow. He could see her curves under the sheet and blanket; a lump rose in his throat. It had been a long time since a woman had graced his house. Too long. He missed female companionship. Jean was fun, and handling her circumstances well. As he'd
said, he didn't mind her being here at all. “I always wondered why Molly chose Connor. They seemed to enjoy each other, but I felt it was more of a convenient thing than a real once-in-a-lifetime love affair.”

“I'm not sure a woman always believes that there's a Mr. Right,” Jean said.

“You're not suggesting she was just ‘making do' with Connor because she didn't feel she'd meet Mr. Right?”

Jean shook her head. “I can't speak to Molly's emotions. She may truly love him. Of course, if he's truly Molly's Mr. Right, where was he tonight?”

“I have a bad feeling about that I'm not willing to share right now.”

“You're thinking he might have been kidnapped by the goons who shot up the wedding?”

Sam frowned. “Perhaps he's behind the whole thing.”

Jean gasped. She opened her mouth to deny his statement, then hesitated. “When we were at the restaurant Friday night for the rehearsal dinner, I went outside to get some fresh air. I saw Tommy Morrissey—the best man—and Connor outside arguing. I walked away, but later when I went back—it was cold outside and I'd had all the fresh air I could stand—I heard Connor talking on his cell phone.” Jean's words were slow as she thought back to the night before.

“And?”

“He was angry with whomever he was talking to. He said something about—” She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “‘Find the diamonds, kill the kids, end of story is how I figure.'” She opened her eyes, meeting Sam's dark gaze. “Those were his exact words.” She sat up, worried all over again. “I should have realized something was wrong. But I was so shocked, Sam. I told myself he was joking, but he
seemed mad that I was nearby, as if he didn't want me to overhear. I smiled and acted like I hadn't heard a thing, because it was Molly's wedding and I wanted her to be happy, and even if she was marrying a toad, I would keep my opinions to myself.” Jean's voice turned slightly panicked. “Only maybe I shouldn't have.”

Sam got out of his chair, pushed her down into the bed gently, started rubbing her back like he would an upset child. “Jean, Molly does what Molly wants. She's a big girl.”

“True,” Jean said, “but still—”

“Still nothing. Put it out of your mind for the moment. With any luck, you'll be on a plane sooner than later.”

“What if the kids Connor was talking about, and this is just really wild and random, what if he meant his own nieces and nephew? Charlie, Lily and Zoe? The little wedding attendants. They were so proud of participating in Molly's wedding.”

She stared at Sam, her blue eyes wide as her thoughts raced. Sam let her talk, knowing that a good cop knew how to listen at the right times—and sometimes the right time was when a victim was talking. And remembering.

He shrugged. “Keep going.”

She looked completely panicked now. “Maybe those children were put in harm's way because I didn't speak up. I just wanted everything to be so beautiful for Molly. But maybe I put Charlie, Lily and Zoe in danger with my silence, because I would never have suspected Connor would harm his own family.”

He shrugged. “Who do you think would have believed you if you'd told them what you heard? How would it have changed anything?”

She shook her head. “I suppose you're right…although I'm well aware you're trying to make me feel better.”

“Not necessarily. I'm a Ranger, not the Good Humor man.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “I have to say I didn't pay much attention to the children, although I did notice they seemed to like my sister.”

“There's Zoe, who's three. She was a flower girl. Lily is five, and she was also a flower girl. Then Charlie, who's eight. He's such a great kid—he looked so handsome in his little tux. Their great-aunt, Letitia, arranged to have them in the wedding party.”

Sam nodded. “Because I haven't been properly branching out the family tree.”

“So anyway—”

“Did Molly say that?”

“She said you were ten years older than she was and showed no sign of wanting to marry and have kids,” Jean admitted.

The words struck an unexpected nerve. Had it bothered him that his little sister was heading down the aisle before he did? Maybe Molly was right. Had he ever really thought about being a dad? He was thirty-eight—maybe he should have considered fatherhood. “So back to the kids,” he said, surrendering ground for the moment.

“This is going to be extremely difficult on them.” Jean chewed on her lips, lips he realized were full and completely kissable. “Molly said they'd been through so much recently. They lost their parents in a tragic car crash…and Letitia thought being ring bearer and flower girls might cheer them up—or at least distract them. Molly was happy to include them, but they must be so shell-shocked from what happened tonight.” She turned sad eyes on Sam that ripped at his gut. “Can you imagine how frightened they must be?”

“Don't think about it,” he said gruffly, getting onto the bed next to her. He'd been hoping Jean wouldn't go there—as good a Ranger as he was considered to be, he was a little freaked that his sister could have taken a bullet. Just thinking
about it made his gut churn acid; the cramps were slow in leaving him from the adrenaline surge. He wasn't entirely sure who'd been the target today, but the thought of losing his sister, the only person left on the planet he cared about, was not an option he wanted to consider.

If he ever got his hands on the SOBs, he'd kill them without even a twinge of remorse.

He worked the knots out of Jean's shoulders as much to comfort her as to keep himself from jumping back in his car and racing to Dallas to hand out a little vigilante justice. Yet he could not do that. No one, by the grace of God, had been harmed.

Only by the grace of God, though.

Slowly, Jean relaxed under his absent-minded massage. Five minutes later, he felt the tension ebb from her, and slowly removed his hands from her body. She had a gorgeous back, he realized, and soft skin. He wanted to touch her again, but it wasn't right; she was nearly asleep and he didn't have her permission.

He looked out the window at the moon and wondered what was wrong with him. Temptation didn't usually lure him this hard, this fast, and certainly not for a woman he was supposed to be protecting.

He forced his thoughts away from her. One thing that bothered him was the idea that Jean thought he and Molly weren't close—even Molly felt that way. But a ten-year age difference was not enough to keep him from loving his sister. He'd been an emotional coward. Taken off from home at the first opportunity, as was normal for eighteen-year-old boys. But the distance between them had never meant he didn't love her.

Reluctantly, Sam reclined against the pillow on the opposite side of the bed so Jean would feel protected. When he heard her begin to breathe in slow, rhythmic breaths, he
sneaked a glance her way. The moonlight through the curtains gave a luminous glow to her face. He liked the shape of her body, the sensual slopes outlined by the blanket. Watching over Jean this closely wasn't really part of the job, but he decided he kind of liked it.

He thought again about what she'd heard Connor say on his cell phone. He'd known it was worth remembering the second the words had fallen from her bow-shaped lips. As her protector, he wasn't about to tell her she was probably on to something with those “random” thoughts of hers.

She was a witness, which she would realize sooner than later.

The anger pushed at him, and he jerked his gaze to Jean, forcefully reminding himself that she was just another assignment—not a smart, attractive woman he had a sudden overwhelming desire to hold.

Someone on the inside had known of Sam's phone call to the police, warning that Connor's buddies were carrying weapons. That same someone had let Connor know the wedding party was going to be crashed.

Which was why Molly's groom had developed
very
cold feet.

The question was…why the gunfire at the wedding? Who had been the true target? Morrissey seemed to be shooting at Jean. But what about the kids? He dismissed that. His sister? Hard to miss her in that lovely wedding gown.

Find what diamonds? Jean had mentioned overhearing Connor's threat. Diamonds and weddings were supposed to go together, but not accompanied by gunfire.

Jean rolled over in her sleep, throwing an arm across him as she snuggled against his chest. Sam stiffened. She felt wonderful lying so close to him.

He shouldn't be in bed with a possible material witness.

He was in heaven—and hell.

J
EAN WAS ALONE
when she awakened the next morning. Sam wasn't anywhere to be seen, which surprised her. She'd expected him to be hovering over her, making certain she didn't leave his watchful presence.

She had a distinct memory of feeling safe all night. In fact, if she hadn't been so bone-tired, she almost might think she remembered being safe and warm in Sam's arms.

She really had been dreaming.

Once she'd showered and dressed, she headed for the kitchen. The doorbell sounded. “Sam! It's Molly! Open up!”

Jean raced to the door, but Sam grabbed her from behind. “Oh, no, you don't,” he said. “That's a great way for you to get hurt.”

“It's your sister!”

“I'm aware of that.” He moved her behind him. “Let's just make certain no one's with her that I reserve the right to welcome.”

Jean rolled her eyes. Molly was right—Sam was totally overbearing. “Yes, sir, Mr. Ranger, sir,” she muttered.

Sam opened the door. He didn't have a chance to scout the porch because Molly flung herself into his arms. “You're the best brother in the world!” Then with her typical enthusiasm, she hugged Jean tightly. “And you saved my life!”

“I did?” Just as enthusiastically, Jean returned the hug. “I'm pretty sure I didn't do anything.”

“Molly, what are you doing here?” Sam demanded sternly. “Why aren't you being protected by someone? Shouldn't you be tucked away somewhere for safety?”

“I'm in good hands.” She gave a little sniff. “A very nice older cop drove me out here. He says you and he go way back. I insisted Jean needed her clothes and her suitcases.”

Sam sighed. “Any cop should know better than to bring you here. I have a feeling you wrapped him around your finger just to see Jean.”

Jean smiled at Sam's obvious annoyance and Molly's obvious determination.

“He said not to worry,” Molly assured Sam. “He's hanging around, checking the grounds.”

“Great.” Sam shook his head. “You're supposed to be safe somewhere until we get everything sorted out with your…with Connor.”

“I'll be fine, Sam.” She gave Jean a tight hug. “I'm so sorry about everything.”

“Don't be sorry for me. I'm actually kind of enjoying myself.” Jean didn't want her friend to agonize on her behalf.

“You can't be.” Molly glanced around the living room, her gaze falling on the pullout bed. “This isn't exactly the Ritz, and Sam, where are all the Christmas decorations I sent you over the years? Boxes and boxes of them?”

Sam looked sheepish. “I'll be getting them down from the attic soon,” he said apologetically.

“Did you ever even open the boxes?” Molly demanded.

“I'm going to, I am,” Sam said, his gaze flicking to Jean as he headed out of the room. She grinned at him. His weak spot was definitely his sister.

“Well, I must be off,” Molly said. “I'm only supposed to stay five minutes.” She looked at Jean, her eyes serious. “Are you sure you're all right here? With my brother?”

“He's been the soul of good manners—really,” Jean assured her. “I'm so sorry about your wedding.”

“Strangely, I'm not,” Molly said. “I'm worried about Letitia, and I'm worried about Zoe, Lily and Charlie.”

“Where are they?”

“Right now they're with Letitia, who is either in her element with all the media attention, or having a dramatic meltdown. Depends on the moment, though I can't blame her for being upset. I'm still waiting to hear from Connor—Letitia's very worried about him, of course.” Molly pointed to Jean's suitcases and purse. “Hopefully this will all be cleared up soon and you can be back in New England.” She left after giving Jean one last hug. Tears filled Jean's eyes. It was just like Molly to be more worried about everyone else, instead of herself.

She was glad to have her things, though. She began hauling her cases back to her room when suddenly she realized Sam was behind her, carrying one. “You scared me!”

“Sorry,” he said, “just trying to help. These things weigh a ton. Girl stuff is heavier than it should be, but I suppose that's not a gentlemanly thing to say.”

She let that pass. “Molly left.”

“I know. I said goodbye.”

“Where'd you go?” Happily, she pulled her own jeans and a soft green sweater from a case.

“I went to talk to my buddy,” he said a little too casually.

Jean turned and looked at him for a long moment. “You told him what I told you, didn't you? About what I heard Connor say?”

“Does it matter?” Sam's gaze narrowed on her.

“Well, now that he knows everything I know, can I go home? There's nothing else I can tell you. I promise you that.”

“Actually, I'm supposed to stick pretty tight to you.”

The thought was appealing—not that it should be, Jean reminded herself. The strong Ranger looked like he might eat her up as easily as he could eat a Christmas cookie. “I don't know that I'm any safer with you than I would be with the bad guys,” she said, just to rattle his cage a bit.

Sam crossed his arms, leaned against the wall. “Really? The bad guys might want you dead.”

“I wouldn't have figured you to be melodramatic,” she said with a sigh.

He watched her with interest, his dark gaze inscrutable, and her body heated with longings she shouldn't feel. “I'd like to change my clothes,” she said briskly.

His lips twisted in a smile she was certain he begrudged. “I'll leave you to it.”

Jean heard his boots in the hallway as he walked away. A breath escaped her that she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

And then it hit her: She had the hots for that emotionally stunted Ranger…
bad.

 

S
AM DECIDED
to give Jean a wide berth—she'd let him know when she wanted company. He knew she was eager to be home for the holidays, and he was aware that she didn't particularly feel comfortable around him.

He heard thumping in his attic and sighed. The woman wasn't very subtle.

She was after those damn Christmas boxes Molly had mentioned. The second Molly had said “boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations,” Jean had looked positively electrified. He sighed, listening as more thumps sounded on the stairwell, the
sure sounds of the Santa Claus effect being unleashed upon him. With a sigh, he got up to make some tea. If he had to endure this harbinger of the holidays, this ringing in of the meaningless season, he might as well put on his good-cop face.

“So, Sam,” he heard from the living room.

“So, Jean,” he answered.

“Why are you such a Scrooge, anyway, and your sister's not?”

He put the kettle on the stove and jacked up the heat. “Guys see the holidays as commercial. Girls see Christmas as the possibility of all their fantasies coming true. Instead of a fairy godmother, it's Santa to the rescue.”

He heard a gasp from Jean and grinned.

“That's so Scrooge, Sam!”

That made him laugh. “Maybe.” He set some tea bags into a teacup and a mug. The mug was black, and the cup was black. He liked black better than green and red, the traditional colors of the holidays. Black was nice and basic and served lots of utilitarian purposes. “Guess I don't believe much in fairy tales dreamed up by merchants.”

She came into the kitchen, smiled when she saw the cup he'd prepared for her. “But you're not totally inconsiderate.”

“No. I'm a gentleman,” he said. “I'm just not looking to sugarcoat life.”

She cocked her head at him. “Are you saying Molly does?”

“No. Molly has a right to be happy. I wish it had all worked out for her.”

“Come out here with me,” she told him.

“Can't,” he said, knowing she was going to show him a bunch of doodly Christmas crap she'd spread all over his living room. “Have to make my guest some breakfast.”

“What can you make?” she asked, clearly testing his
culinary talent. His grocery-buying skills were also under the microscope as she opened his fridge. “Ah. Well, let's see…we could have beer. Or…beer! Or even,” she said, glancing at him, “a beer.”

“Hey, don't make it sound as if I subsist on hops,” he said, irritated. “There's only one bottle in there.”

She closed the door. “Precisely. Your cupboard is bare.”

“Well, I was planning to go shoot Bambi and bring her back here to make venison omelettes,” he said, waiting to get his head handed to him.

“We could just snack on the stuff you picked up at the gas station last night and leave Bambi to roam,” Jean said.

“I'm kidding, actually.” He didn't want Jean to think he really didn't know how to cook. “I was planning on making a run to the grocery store. We'll need a few food groups, I would imagine.”

“You're leaving me here alone?”

Sam nodded. “I won't be gone long. Your decorating should keep you busy.”

“How do you know I'm decorating?” She gave him a sly look.

“I know the sounds of elves and their shenanigans. Anything special you want from the store?”

She sighed. “We could make Christmas cookies. And maybe some fudge. I can whip up a Godiva pie that'll have you—”

“Jean,” he said, “no sugarcoating.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I don't need all that holiday cheer stuff.”

She looked at him with big blue eyes, drowning him in her innocence. “So…maybe you could just pick up more beer?”

“All I'm saying is this Christmas could be a lot different from any you've known before if the police don't find O'Bannion and Morrissey.”

Her face fell for a moment before she quickly regrouped. “Look, Scrooge, that doesn't mean I can't bake some cookies. And you can eat them without all your Christmas issues ruining my holiday.”

She reminded him so much of Molly; he could see why the two of them were so close. The truth was, if she wanted “sugarcoating” right now, she deserved all that he could give her. “Hey, maybe I'll go get some cookie stuff and even some milk,” he said in his best Boy Scout voice, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“That would be wonderful, Sam,” she said, playing along, “and maybe even get one of those Christmas CDs they always have in the aisles for the convenience of people who like a little music with their baking?”

“It would make the occasion just that much more festive,” he said agreeably, putting his hat on, shoving his keys in his pocket, telling himself he wouldn't ask her if maybe he should pick up some coal and switches to go in a certain little Miss New England's stocking, as well. “And you be waiting right here so that when I return, we'll have so much holiday fun even Santa will be impressed.” He waited for her to promise him there'd be no funny stuff, no hitting the road with the ol' thumb-out ticket. The store was only five minutes away— Martha could fix him up with the proper ingredients they needed for baking something. But still, he wanted to know that he could trust Jean.

She smiled at him, and his heart dropped into his boots.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Don't mention it,” he said gruffly. The cop guarding Molly wasn't the only sap who'd been wrapped around a woman's finger today, and the funny thing was, it didn't feel as bad as Sam had thought it might.

 

W
HEN
S
AM RETURNED
, there was no escaping Christmas. “Wow,” was all he could say as he walked into the living room to find Jean. The holiday beckoned him with a vision of lights and color. “Holy Christmas.”

Jean laughed. “Molly's quite the elf. You've got enough decorations for the entire house.”

“I see that.” He walked slowly around the room. A small tree stood on a tabletop, its branches adorned with tiny felt candy canes, silvery tinsel and gold ornaments. On the top was a gold star, opened like a locket with a picture of Sam and Molly inside, when they'd been much younger. It was a black-and-white photo, but he remembered this pigtailed Molly, the one he'd read stories to, the one who'd followed him around like an adoring puppy. Unexpectedly, he felt the sentimental fog of the season creep over him, its tendrils reaching for his heart.

He turned away, noting the manger on the coffee table, angels hanging from the roof. Inside, the typical scene: baby, Mary, Joseph, barn animals. But what was different about this manger was that there was a small sign nearby that said
Room at Sam's Place,
which had been hand-painted by Molly. He'd said that to Molly a hundred times—
there's always room at my place if you need somewhere to stay
—but she'd never taken him up on it.

Still, it meant a lot to him that she'd known his offer was sincere.

There were stockings hanging from the mantel of the fireplace. All the stockings matched except one, and that one had his name on it. That stocking had been empty for a lot of Christmases, but now it had books bursting from the top of it. He went over to look at them. They were small versions of
The Night Before Christmas
and other classics.

He felt startled tears jump into his eyes.

Beside him, he noticed Jean move. He couldn't face her just yet, so he didn't say anything. Quietly, she placed on the mantel three silver-framed pictures of him and Molly: one as children, one as young adults and one when Molly had graduated from college. She looked beautiful in her cap and gown, and his breath hitched in his chest as the full force of her gifts tugged at his heart.

He wasn't going to get mushy in front of Jean, though. He was supposed to be her protector, not an emotional washout, so he walked into the kitchen and began unloading the grocery bags he'd set on the counter.

She came to stand beside him; he felt her gentle presence.