Home for the Holidays (11 page)

Cait dropped her foot and frantically worked the shoe back and forth until she'd managed to squeeze her toes inside. Then she forced her other foot into its shoe. “Well, for heaven's sake, why didn't you say something sooner?” she chastised. She stood up, ran her hands down the satin skirt and drew a shaky breath. “How do I look?”

“Like your feet hurt.”

She sent him a scalding frown. “Thank you very much,” she said sarcastically for the second time in under ten minutes. Hobbling to the door, she opened it a crack and peeked out, hoping to catch sight of the mystery woman. From what she could see, there weren't any new arrivals.

“What does she look like?” Cait demanded and whirled around to discover Joe standing directly behind her. She nearly collided with him and gave a small cry of surprise. Joe caught her by the shoulders to keep her from stumbling. Eager to question him about Paul's date, she didn't take the time to analyze why her heartrate soared when his hands made contact with her bare skin.

“What does she look like?” Cait asked again.

“I don't know,” Joe returned flippantly.

“What do you mean you don't know? You just said she'd arrived.”

“Unfortunately she doesn't have a tattoo across her forehead announcing that she's the woman Paul's dating.”

“Then how do you know she's here?” If Joe was playing games with her, she'd make damn sure he'd regret it. Her love for Paul was no joking matter.

“It's more a feeling I have.”

“You had me stuff my feet back into these shoes for a stupid feeling?” It was all she could do not to slap him silly. “You are no friend of mine, Joseph Rockwell. No friend whatsoever.” Having said that, she limped back into the living room.

Obviously unscathed by her remark, Joe wandered out of the kitchen behind her. He walked over to the tray of canapés and helped himself to three or four while Cait did her best to ignore him.

Since the punch bowl was close by, she poured herself a second glass. The taste was sweet and cold, but Cait noticed that she felt a bit light-headed afterward. Potent drinks didn't sit well on an empty stomach, so she scooped up a handful of mixed nuts.

“I remember a time when you used to line up all the Spanish peanuts and eat those first,” Joe said from behind her. “Then it was the hazelnuts, followed by the—”

“Almonds.” Leave it to him to bring up her foolish past. “I haven't done that since I was—”

“Twenty,” he guessed.

“Twenty-five,” she corrected.

Joe laughed, and despite her aching feet and the cer
tainty that she should never have come to this party, Cait laughed, too.

Refilling her punch glass, she downed it all in a single drink. Once more, it tasted cool and refreshing.

“Cait,” Joe warned, “how much punch have you had?”

“Not enough.” She filled the crystal cup a third time—or was it the fourth?—squared her shoulders and gulped it down. When she'd finished, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and smiled bravely.

“Are you purposely trying to get drunk?” he demanded.

“No.” She reached for another handful of nuts. “All I'm looking for is a little courage.”

“Courage?”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “The way I figure it…” She paused, smiling giddily, then whirled around in a full circle. “There
is
some mistletoe here, isn't there?”

“I think so,” Joe said, frowning. “What makes you ask?”

“I'm going to kiss Paul,” she said proudly. “All I have to do is wait until he walks past. Then I'll grab him by the hand, wish him a merry Christmas and give him a kiss he won't soon forget.” If the fantasy fulfilled itself, Paul would immediately realize he'd met the woman of his dreams, and propose marriage on the spot….

“What is kissing Paul supposed to prove?”

She returned to reality. “Well, this is where you come in. I want you to look around and watch the faces of the other women. If one of them shows signs of jealousy, then we'll know who it is.”

“I'm not sure this plan of yours is going to work.”

“It's better than trusting those feelings of yours,” she countered.

She saw the mistletoe hanging from the archway be
tween the formal dining room and the living room. Slouched against the wall, hands tucked behind her back, Cait waited patiently for Paul to stroll past.

Ten minutes passed or maybe it was fifteen—Cait couldn't tell. Yawning, she covered her mouth. “I think we should leave,” Joe suggested as he casually walked by. “You're ready to fall asleep on your feet.”

“I haven't kissed Paul yet,” she reminded him.

“He seems to be involved in a lengthy discussion. This could take a while.”

“I'm in no hurry.” Her throat felt unusually dry. She would have preferred something nonalcoholic, but the only drink nearby was the punch.

“Cait,” Joe warned when he saw her helping herself to yet another glass.

“Don't worry, I know what I'm doing.”

“So did the captain of the
Titanic.
”

“Don't get cute with me, Joseph Rockwell. I'm in no mood to deal with someone amusing.” Finding herself hilariously funny, she smothered a round of giggles.

“Oh, no,” Joe groaned. “I was afraid of this.”

“Afraid of what?”

“You're drunk!”

She gave him a sour look. “That's ridiculous. All I had is four little, bitty glasses of punch.” To prove she knew exactly what she was doing, she held up three fingers, recognized her mistake and promptly corrected herself. At least she tried to do it promptly, but figuring out how many fingers equaled four seemed to take an inordinate amount of time. She finally held up two from each hand.

Expelling her breath, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. That was her second mistake. The
world took a sharp and unexpected nosedive. Snapping open her eyes, Cait looked to Joe as the anchor that would keep her afloat. He must have read the panic in her expression because he moved toward her and slowly shook his head.

“That does it, Ms. Singapore Sling. I'm getting you out of here.”

“But I haven't been under the mistletoe yet.”

“If you want anyone to kiss you, it'll be me.”

The offer sounded tempting, but it was her stubborn boss Cait wanted to kiss, not Joe. “I'd rather dance with you.”

“Unfortunately there isn't any music at the moment.”

“You need music to dance?” It sounded like the saddest thing she'd ever heard, and her bottom lip began to tremble at the tragedy of it all. “Oh, dear, Joe,” she whispered, clasping both hands to the sides of her head. “I think you might be right. The punch seems to be affecting me….”

“It's that bad, is it?”

“Uh, yes…The whole room's just started to pitch and heave. We're not having an earthquake, are we?”

“No.” His hand was on her forearm, guiding her toward the front door.

“Wait,” she said dramatically, raising her index finger. “I have a coat.”

“I know. Stay here and I'll get it for you.” He seemed worried about leaving her. Cait smiled at him, trying to reassure him she'd be perfectly fine, but she seemed unable to keep her balance. He urged her against the wall, stepped back a couple of paces as though he expected her to slip sideways, then hurriedly located her coat.

“What's wrong?” he asked when he returned.

“What makes you think anything's wrong?”

“Other than the fact that you're crying?”

“My feet hurt.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Why did you wear those stupid shoes in the first place?”

“I already told you,” she whimpered. “Don't be mad at me.” She held out her arms to him, needing his comfort. “Would you carry me to the car?”

Joe hesitated. “You want me to carry you?” He sounded as though it was a task of Herculean proportions.

“I can't walk.” She'd taken the shoes off, and it would take God's own army to get them back on. She couldn't very well traipse outside in her stocking feet.

“If I carry you, we'd better find another way out of the house.”

“All right.” She agreed just to prove what an amicable person she actually was. When she was a child, she'd been a pest, but she wasn't anymore and she wanted to be sure Joe understood that.

Grasping Cait's hand, he led her into the kitchen.

“Don't you think we should make our farewells?” she asked. It seemed the polite thing to do.

“No,” he answered sharply. “With the mood you're in you're likely to throw yourself into Paul's arms and demand that he make mad passionate love to you right then and there.”

Cait's face went fire-engine red. “That's ridiculous.”

Joe mumbled something she couldn't hear while he lifted her hand and slipped one arm, then the other, into the satin-lined sleeves of her full-length coat.

When he'd finished, Cait climbed on top of the kitchen chair, stretching out her arms to him. Joe stared at her as though she'd suddenly turned into a werewolf.

“What are you doing now?” he asked in an exasperated voice.

“You're going to carry me, aren't you?”

“I was considering it.”

“I want a piggyback ride. You gave Betsy McDonald a piggyback ride once and not me.”

“Cait,” Joe groaned. He jerked his fingers through his hair, and offered her his hand, wanting her to climb down from the chair. “Get down before you fall. Good Lord, I swear you'd try the patience of a saint.”

“I want you to carry me piggyback,” she insisted. “Oh, please, Joe. My toes hurt so bad.”

Once again her hero grumbled under his breath. She couldn't make out everything he said, but what she did hear was enough to curl her hair. With obvious reluctance, he walked to the chair, and giving a sigh of pure bliss, Cait wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged his lean hips with her legs. She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed again.

Still grumbling, Joe moved toward the back door.

Just then the kitchen door opened and Paul and Lindy walked in. Lindy gasped. Paul just stared.

“It's all right,” Cait was quick to assure them. “Really it is. I was waiting under the mistletoe and you—”

“She downed four glasses of punch nonstop,” Joe inserted before Cait could admit she'd been waiting there for Paul.

“Do you need any help?” Paul asked.

“None, thanks,” Joe returned. “There's nothing to worry about.”

“But…” Lindy looked concerned.

“She ain't heavy,” Joe teased. “She's my wife.”

 

The phone rang, waking Cait from a sound sleep. Her head began throbbing in time to the painful noise and she groped for the telephone receiver.

“Hello,” she barked, instantly regretting that she'd spoken loudly.

“How are you feeling?” Joe asked.

“About like you'd expect,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed and gently massaging one temple. It felt as though tiny men with hammers had taken up residence in her head and were pounding away, hoping to attract her attention.

“What time does your flight leave?” he asked.

“It's okay. I'm not scheduled to leave until this afternoon.”

“It is afternoon.”

Her eyes flew open. “What?”

“Do you still need me to take you to the airport?”

“Yes…please.” She tossed aside the covers and reached for her clock, stunned to realize Joe was right. “I'm already packed. I'll be dressed by the time you get here. Oh, thank goodness you phoned.”

Cait didn't have time to listen to the pounding of the tiny men in her head. She showered and dressed as quickly as possible, swallowed a cup of coffee and a couple of aspirin, and was just shrugging into her coat when Joe arrived at the door.

She let him in, despite the suspiciously wide grin he wore.

“What's so amusing?”

“What makes you think I'm amused?” He strolled into the room, hands behind his back, as if he owned the place.

“Joe, we don't have time for your little games. Come on, or I'm going to miss my plane. What's with you, anyway?”

“Nothing.” He circled her living room, still wearing that silly grin. “I don't suppose you realize it, but liquor has a peculiar effect on you.”

Cait stiffened. “It does?” She remembered most of the party with great clarity. Good thing Joe had taken her home when he had.

“Liquor loosens your tongue.”