Banish Misfortune (17 page)

"I hope you don't mind, but I've put you in Springer's room," Elyssa said, leading the way up the staircase that had narrowed by the time they got to the third floor. "I'm in the bedroom you usually use, and Johnson's been staying in the other bedroom."

"Where is Johnson?"

Elyssa shrugged her narrow shoulders. "Who knows? He tells Ham that he can't bear to be around death and suffering—he's too sensitive for it. So we don't see much of him, which is just as well, I suppose."

"And David?"

Elyssa sighed. "I don't know about David. He'll have to accept that Ham is a prior responsibility. I can't just abandon him, leave him to die alone in pain and misery."

"But David thinks you should?" Jessica drawled, letting her tone of voice carry just a trace of censure.

"Let's just say he thinks our relationship should come first," she temporized.

"You mean he thinks his relationship should come first."

"Don't, Jessica!
I
'm having a difficult enough time as it is. I haven't seen him in days, it's Christmas Eve, and I miss him."

Relenting, Jessica put a soothing hand on her friend's arm. "Then why don't you go to him?"

"I can't leave Ham."

"Of course you can.
I
'm here; I'll take care of him if he needs anything. He isn't in any medical danger right now—there's nothing you can do that I couldn't do just as well. Why don't you grab a bottle of Moet, stop by a delicatessen and show up on his doorstep with a midnight feast?" Much as it galled her to encourage Elyssa's relationship with that pig, she couldn't stand her friend's unhappiness. First Marianne and Andrew, now Elyssa and the detested David. She certainly seemed to be becoming a sentimental matchmaker in her old age.

Doubt and excitement played over Elyssa's expressive face, and she suddenly looked ten years younger again. "Would you mind terribly, Jessica?" she breathed. "You just arrived, and I was looking forward to sitting around catching up on what's been happening to you. And if you think you're going to avoid telling me all about my godchild you have another think coming."

"I'll tell you all about her—we'll have plenty of time. In the meantime, why don't you go put on something pretty and sexy, and fix your makeup while I call you a cab? You can make it up to his place by midnight if your hurry."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Hurry up, Elyssa. And Merry Christmas."

Elyssa paused long enough to give Jessica an exuberant hug, then sped down the stairs like a teenager. "Merry Christmas, darling," she called back.

With a distant, satisfied smile on her face, Jessica steeled herself to enter Springer's room. The reality was a relief and a disappointment. It was a large room, with lots of windows looking out at the taller buildings and the bright Christmas lights, and very little furniture, no pictures, nothing to signify that anyone in particular called this room his own. Elyssa had tried to personalize it with a small, delicate Christmas tree to welcome her, the tiny white lights glowing in the cavernous room. The huge bed was the only thing that made her think of Springer, both because of its size and for other, less comfortable reasons.

There was a telephone on the bedside table, and she quickly called a taxi for Elyssa before she headed in for a long, relaxing shower in the adjoining bathroom. It was past midnight by the time she emerged, shoulder-length hair wet, face scrubbed, her rounded body wrapped in a thick flannel nightgown. For a moment she considered going back down to the kitchen and warming some milk, then thought better of it. She had finally developed a taste for milk during the past five months, but the thought of Ham's kitchen at midnight brought back too many memories, memories that were safely buried in the back of her subconscious. At that point she didn't even remember what Springer MacDowell looked like.

Curling up in the oversized bed, she pulled the down quilt around her, turning off the bedside light to stare at the twinkling Christmas tree in the corner. How were Cameron and Marianne progressing, she wondered. Had Marianne conquered her distrust enough to ask him to share their Christmas dinner? Or were the two of them alone, miserable, wanting to be with the other? Except that Marianne was too stubborn to ever admit it, Jessica thought with a sigh. And Cameron too cagey to push things. No, they were probably alone, and sound asleep on Christmas Eve. As she soon would be. Punching up the pillows behind her, she pulled the comforter closer, placing a soothing hand over the sleeping baby inside her. "Merry Christmas, precious," she said softly.

The harsh ring of the telephone shot through her nerves like lightning, and she jumped for the telephone before it could wake Ham from his fitful night's sleep. "Hello?" Her voice sounded breathless, startled, sleepy. There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line. "MacDowell residence," she prompted. There was a faint crackle of long distance on the line, just enough to give her a moment's warning.

"Jessica?" Springer's voice was deep, disbelieving, from across the continent, and the baby kicked, sharply. She had forgotten how deliciously deep and sexy that voice was, how seductive. Damn him.

"Hello, Springer," she said, her voice a miracle of calm self-control. "Merry Christmas."

"What are you doing there?" It was abrupt, definitely lacking any qualities of seasonal cheer, and Jessica responded in kind.

"Spending Christmas."

"Is my mother there?"

"She's out for the night with David. Do you want me to wake your father?"

"He's in bed already?" Springer's voice was disbelieving. "He must be slowing down in his old age. No, I don't want to talk with him. You can tell him I wished him a merry Christmas. So does Katherine."

It was like a sharp blow in the solar plexus, and if her voice was a trifle breathless from the pain he wouldn't be able to tell from so far away. "Katherine?" she couldn't help but echo.

"Katherine," he verified, giving away nothing. "We'll call next week sometime, when all the holiday bustle is over." There was a long, uncomfortable pause. "How have you been, Jessie?" His diffident voice sounded less than interested. "I expected you'd still be around when I came back to pick up my car, but my mother said you'd moved. Where've you been?"

"Oh, here and there," she said vaguely. "And I've been fine. Thriving, actually. And you?"

"I'm fine, the weather's fine, everything's fine," he shot back, clearly tiring of the polite conversation. "Why did you run away, Jessie?" His voice had dropped lower, and the seductive strings wrapped around her heart once more. Suddenly she could see him all too clearly—the dark, fathomless eyes, the silky black hair, the long, clean limbs of his beautiful body.

A thousand calm, polite excuses came to mind. Peter, Lincoln, any number of things that Springer would remember and believe. And they had a great deal to do with why she left. But they weren't the major reason; the major reason was now kicking up a storm, and Jessica had gotten out of the habit of lying in the past few months.

"I...it seemed..." The words trailed off, and her eyes filled with the tears that pregnancy seemed to make part and parcel of her daily life. "Merry Christmas, Springer," she said, and quietly placed the phone back on the hook.

He didn't call again. Cradling her arms around her shivering body, she huddled down farther into the covers, closed here tear-filled eyes and willed herself to sleep.

Marianne sat by her wood stove
, eyes firmly fixed on the dull black iron, on the wood floor that needed re-finishing, on the figures of Eric and Shannon, sound asleep on the lumpy old sofa. She had lit the room with candles, a tradition she couldn't change, even though it softened the light, made the room damnably romantic. The glow from the Christmas tree didn't help, the smell of fir and wood smoke and mulled cider teased her nostrils, and she wished Cameron would leave.

She had no more polite conversation left, no more food to feed him; he'd had three cups of coffee and the rest of the bottle of very fine brandy that Tom had left behind. The sound of his voice, with its soft, teasing burr, was melting her resistance, sneaking its way past her rigid refusal to get involved ever again. He was such a damnable man. What in the world was she doing, sitting here staring at the wood stove, wishing he'd leave, wishing he'd kiss her?

Well, there was nothing so strange in that, she reasoned. It was a soft, romantic night, filled with memories of Christmases past, it was no wonder she was feeling vulnerable. And it had been so long since she'd been kissed.

"Don't you think it's getting late?" she said sourly.

Cameron was leaning back in the rocking chair she'd spent last winter recaning, puffing away on an evil-looking meerschaum pipe, the rich tobacco scent mingling with the smells of Christmas.

"Are you telling me I've overstayed my welcome?" he inquired serenely, not the slightest bit put out.

"I didn't mean that..." she said hastily, guilt and something else washing over her.

"Of course you did, Marianne. Don't disappoint me by becoming all sweetness and light. You'll only turn mean and nasty the moment Christmas is over, and my illusions will be shattered."

"If I'm so mean and nasty why did you bother to come?" she shot back, sliding more comfortably into her usual argumentative state. As long as they fought she wouldn't have this demoralizing need to have him kiss her.

He smiled, a smile of peculiar sweetness. "How could I resist, when I knew how much it galled you to ask me?"

"It did not!" she fired back.

"You mean you wanted my company on Christmas Eve?"

"No. That is..."

"Marianne, you asked me to have Christmas Eve with your family because beneath your cold exterior there beats a heart of oatmeal mush, and you couldn't stand the thought of some poor soul, even your nemesis, being alone on Christmas Eve." He had knocked the dottle out of the pipe and had risen, stretching his wiry body with an indolent yawn.

She was glad of the romantic candlelight—it hid the uncontrollably mournful look in her wide brown eyes. She watched him in silence as he pulled the lightweight sweater over his lean body, followed it with a much heavier one, and wound a scarf around his neck. "Fat lot you know," she murmured under her breath as he headed for the door.

He stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly to look at her, huddled miserably by the fire. "What did you say?" There was a sudden look in his narrow, clever face, one she might almost have called hope. But what could he be hoping for?

"Nothing," she said, turning coward again.

"Woman," he said with a sigh, "you are the most frustrating female it has ever been my misfortune to meet."

"Sorry," she said, unrepentant. "And don't call me woman."

He stood there, staring at her. "Woman," he said again, his rich Scottish accent caressing the word, "you're not sorry at all."

She had to turn her face to hide her sudden smile, and she missed his swift movement. One moment he was standing in the middle of the room, eyeing her with his usual irritation, and the next moment he was beside her, one strong, beautiful hand sliding behind her neck, under the heavy mane of chestnut hair, tilting her head up to look at him.

She did so easily, too surprised to resist. "Woman," he whispered, "you'll drive me mad." And his mouth caught hers, in a brief, deep kiss that tasted of brandy and pipe tobacco and of an intense longing that left her shaken. She raised her hands to touch him, but he had already moved away, not even aware of her incipient response. "Happy Christmas, Marianne," he said, and was gone.

She stared after him, at the closed door that shut out the wind and snow and Andrew Cameron. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth, to wipe away the feel of him. But instead, her fingers gently caressed the lips that he'd kissed so briefly, and her sigh woke the sleeping children.

Springer leaned back
against the kitchen wall and begun to curse, low, inventive swear words from all over the world, colorful, obscene, incredibly imaginative. Just the sound of her voice, that soft, slightly husky voice had managed to knock the supports from underneath him. He never would have imagined she'd be there tonight. If he'd thought, he might have changed his ironclad policy and taken Katherine East for Christmas. She would have been delighted to see Elyssa and Ham.

But what the hell good would it have done him? It had taken months to get her out of his mind, months to forget those vulnerable blue eyes, that tremulous mouth,

So why was he standing alone in the kitchen of his ex-wife's home on Christmas Eve, leaning against the wall and aching for a skinny, complicated New York lady who was nothing but trouble?

With a last effort he roused himself, pushing against the wall and plastering a bright holiday smile on his face as he moved back to join the others. Maybe he could look up one of his old girl friends—he certainly had enough of them. Maybe one of them could make him forget about Jessica Hansen for a while.